


Desiderium

by bytheinco_nstantmoon



Category: Julie and The Phantoms (TV)
Genre: Bobby is Not Trevor Wilson, Bobby | Trevor Wilson Defense Squad, Carrie Wilson Redemption, Character Death, Demon Deals, Developing Friendships, General tomfoolery, Grief/Mourning, Male-Female Friendship, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Mystery, POV Alternating, Post-Canon, Reggie Needs a Hug (Julie and The Phantoms), The Author Regrets Nothing, This is an AU, bear with me, because you know... ghosts, fuck i don't know, hm. oops, is that a spoiler?, is that another spoiler?, it's gonna be fun and cool i promise, oh well aha, probably?, they are rampant honestly, they are trying their best, well kind of, yes - Freeform, you know how that's a thing people do?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27272404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bytheinco_nstantmoon/pseuds/bytheinco_nstantmoon
Summary: The song playing arched up in energy. The beat was frantic, matching the thrumming of Carrie’s heart in her ears. For the first time, the thought of how alone she was, all by herself in this big empty house, slammed into her like a stone. It was just her and the song and the boy on the bed.--She couldn’t get the picture of Bobby Wilson out of her mind.--or; Julie finds some Polaroids, Carrie finds a CD, and Nick finds himself wondering what the hell he did to deserve this. But nobody's getting off that easy.
Relationships: Alex/Willie (Julie and The Phantoms), Bobby | Trevor Wilson & Carrie Wilson, Bobby | Trevor Wilson & Rose & Ray Molina, Bobby | Trevor Wilson & Willie (Julie and The Phantoms), Flynn/Nick/Carrie Wilson, Julie Molina/Luke Patterson/Reggie
Comments: 83
Kudos: 204





	1. on loop

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunsetjulie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetjulie/gifts).



> i swear to god this isn't as weird and awful as it sounds dfhierghierg i simply need to write it..... it means everything to me. yes sofi this is gifted to you because i never shut up about it in your dms
> 
> anyway!! i hope you enjoy this!! it's my baby

Julie groaned, tossing the dead controller on the ground. “Dammit!” She watched with a pout as Flynn finished first, laughing hysterically at the look on Julie’s face. Luke patted her shoulder sympathetically. “Not helpful.” He shrugged. “Gah. I gotta find batteries. And stop laughing, Flynn! You don’t get points for that!” She stormed out of the room, the laughter still echoing after her.

There was a soft whisk of air, and Reggie appeared at her side, keeping time with her steps. “You sure do get worked up over this game, huh?” he asked cheerfully. Julie tried to scowl at him, but it melted. It was so  _ hard  _ to be annoyed with Reggie.

“Well, Flynn’s always been better at Mario Kart than me. I just want to win a tournament  _ one  _ time. Is that so much to ask?” She pulled open each of the kitchen cabinets, sighing heavily when nothing turned up. “Damn. Where does Dad keep the batteries?” she mused out loud.

“What about the closet upstairs?” Reggie suggested. “He keeps screwdrivers up there.”

Julie gave him a bewildered look. “Dad keeps screwdrivers in a closet?”

“Yeah! I saw him grab one a few days ago!” Reggie replied cheerfully, obviously not finding it strange. Julie sighed.

“I might as well check.”

The closet stuck when she tugged at it the first few times, but eventually, with Reggie’s (incredibly useless) advice that mostly amounted to “pull harder”, she got it open. A pile of towels came tumbling down when she did, though, and she sighed heavily.

“Here, I’ll help,” Reggie offered immediately. He helped her with refolding them- he didn’t know how to fold towels, apparently, but she didn’t want to lecture him on that- and stood on his toes to shove them back onto the top shelf. Julie couldn’t have reached it even if she wanted. Thank God for Reggie and his horrible height. “Hey, what’s all this stuff up here?”

She glanced up. “Huh?”

Reggie shoved the towels in haphazardly and came back down, holding a shoebox in his hands. “Rosie and Robby,” he read off the top. Julie breathed in sharply. “Who-”

She pulled it out of his hands, clutching it to her chest. “This must be some of Dad’s stuff. Of Mom’s,” she said quietly. Reggie blinked, suddenly looking guilty.

“Sorry, Julie, I didn’t know-”

“It’s okay. I don’t… I don’t know who Robby is, though.” She squinted at the sharpied names on the top of the box. “Are you sure that’s an R? It looks like a B to me. I don’t know who Bobby could be either, but-” she cut herself off when she noticed the way Reggie’s face fell. “Sorry.”

He shrugged and turned back to the closet. “It’s okay. The past’s the past, right?” he asked, forcibly cheerful.

“I guess.” She looked down at the box again. “Do you- do you think Dad would mind if I opened this?” she asked quietly. Reggie was still searching for the batteries, but he paused when she asked, regarding her with a solemn look. “I mean, it is kind of hidden… but he’s always talking about moving on, right?”

“Right,” Reggie replied. “And you and Carrie were friends. So I mean, maybe it really is her dad. It would make sense that your parents were friends too.”

“Yeah.” Julie traced a finger over the names. “Couldn’t hurt to check it out, right?”

Which is how she and Reggie ended up on her bedroom floor with the shoebox sitting between them. She exchanged one last nervous look with him before reaching out slowly, pulling the lid off to set aside. “Oh,” she gasped quietly. She was gentle as she lifted the top item out of the box, holding it up into the air. “How did they…”

Reggie poked at it. “It’s got your dad’s name on the back,” he pointed out. Julie flipped it around. Sure enough,  **Ray** was written out in big, bold letters. She swallowed hard. “I  _ told  _ Alex he liked our music,” Reggie added. She laughed tightly.

The Sunset Curve shirt- the bottom half was cut off, she noticed, which made her snicker a little- was set aside, and Julie pulled out a CD. There was something written on it, but it was scrawled so messily that she couldn’t make it out. “Reg, can you read this?” she asked, holding it out.

Reggie took it in hand. “Uh…” he squinted. “Looks like… something something like. Something to like? No. Song to like?” He scratched his nose. “Oh, that’s a for. Song for like?” he tried, sounding as baffled as ever.

Julie pulled it back to examine again. “Song for Luke?”

“Oh. That makes more sense.”

Julie glanced around for the CD player Flynn had given her a few Christmases ago. When she had pulled it out from under her bed, she placed the cryptically labeled disk inside and pressed play.

There were a few moments of whirring silence, and then a boy’s voice came out, clear as day. “Um… this- this is for Luke. Thank you. For… for always inspiring me.”

Reggie’s face had gone white.

Julie swallowed hard, sitting back and peering into the box again as the soft strumming of a guitar began. She pulled out a sheet of folded notebook paper. Her fingers were trembling as she went to unfold it, but she didn’t get far before the voice came back and she froze, her heart stuttering.

“Don’t blink, no, I don’t wanna miss it,” the boy sang quietly. His voice was trembling, she noticed in the periphery of her consciousness, but most of her mind was focused on the familiar melody. “One thing, and it’s back to the beginning, ‘cause everything is rushing in fast-”

“Keep going on, never look back,” she half-whispered, half-sang along with him. Reggie whimpered under his breath, and she set the paper aside, reaching for his hands instead. “Hey, hey, Reg-”

Another voice joined in on the CD, one that made her flinch. “And it’s one, two, three, four times, that I’ve tried for one more night-”

“That’s my mom,” she said numbly. Her hands were squeezing Reggie’s too tight, she noticed, but he just squeezed back. “That- that girl. That’s my mom.” She should have expected that, probably, but it still struck at a chord in her heart.

Reggie sniffled slightly. “That’s Bobby,” he whispered. “That’s  _ our  _ Bobby.”

“Trevor?”

“No,” he said instantly, and she blinked. “No, Trevor is- he’s not-” he shook his head. “He changed. That’s  _ Bobby.  _ That’s how our Bobby used to sing.”

Julie brought one hand up to touch his cheek lightly. “Hey,” she murmured. “Hey, it’s okay. It’ll be okay.” Reggie just leaned into the touch. His eyes fell half-closed, still tracing her face with that hopeless kind of look.

They finished listening to the song in silence. The chords were different, softer, and the second half of the lyrics- the half Julie had written with Luke- were more solemn, but the heart of it stayed the same. The last few beats caught on Bobby’s voice; it hitched, like he was crying, and Reggie’s lip trembled. Julie squeezed his hand again before she took the CD out and placed it back in its case.

There was another minute of just Reggie’s unsteady breathing. Julie swallowed hard.

“Well.” She set the CD on top of the shirt. “That… well.” She swiped at her eyes. “I didn’t know Mom started that song with him. I helped her with it too.” Reggie was the one to reach out this time, and she interlocked her fingers into his easily, letting the small touch draw a little of the pain away. Her mom’s voice still echoed in her ears.

The door swung open, and they both jumped. Reggie dropped her hand like he’d been burned. “Flynn!” he exclaimed. His voice was still shaking, though, and Flynn froze in the doorway, staring at them.

“We were just wondering where you two were.” She raised an eyebrow. “What’s all this?”

Julie wiped at her eyes again. “Um, we found this- this box. In the closet.”

“Rosie and Bobby,” Reggie added helpfully. Flynn’s forehead wrinkled.

“Rosie and Bobby? Like…”

“Like my mom and Carrie’s dad,” Julie confirmed. Flynn tilted her head, looking carefully curious, like she was afraid to be too interested. Julie pointed to the shirt. “There’s a Sunset Curve shirt with my dad’s name written on it,” she added, because she hadn’t quite processed the intense strangeness of that yet. “I guess they were friends.”

“Huh,” was all Flynn said. She peered forward into the box. “Are those Polaroids?” Julie and Reggie leaned forward at the same time, narrowly avoiding a collision, and pulled out the pictures scattered across the bottom of the box.

Reggie flipped one over. “Wow,” he breathed. His voice hitched. “It’s- that’s him. That’s Bobby.”

And sure enough, it was. Skinny and solemn and  _ young,  _ looking a bit like hell come to life, but unmistakably the same boy Julie had seen in her Sunset Curve research. He was sprawled out across a couch, dressed all in black, a cigarette unlit in his mouth and eyes narrowed at the camera. If it weren’t for the smile tugging at his lips, it would chill Julie to the bone. “Get the hell off my couch,” she read at the bottom. Reggie snickered slightly. “That’s my mom’s handwriting,” she added, but it was through a tiny smile.

Flynn sat down next to them and pulled out another picture. “Oh, look at this! Julie, you’ve got to see-” Julie clapped a hand over her mouth, laughing. Even Reggie cracked a grin through his watering eyes.

The picture in Flynn’s hand held a much younger Ray, wearing the same shirt that now sat beside them on the floor. She had been right about the cut- it only came down to mid-stomach. He was wearing tight black skinny jeans and a studded belt with it and laughing so hard that he looked ready to topple over. His arms were slung around the shoulders of his companions- of Mom, wearing the bedazzled Sunset Curve shirt that Julie had found in her things, and Bobby, wearing one that had the sides cut out into a muscle tank. Both of them were laughing too, leaning into Ray’s sides. It wasn’t a very well-composed photo, too blurry and too bright, but something in Julie’s chest expanded, seeing them all grin like that. There was a kind of love in it that couldn’t be denied.

“They look like idiots,” she whispered. Reggie nodded. It was his turn to wipe at his eyes.

There were more photos with various captions- Rose and Ray at the beach ( _ they’re disgusting. 1996) _ , Bobby and Rose hunched together over the kitchen table with a mug between them  _ (bobby spilled the tea all over the music),  _ Ray and Bobby in the front seat of Ray’s old truck, clearly taken from the backseat, fencing with Twizzlers  _ (eyes on the road! 1996),  _ Rose posing by a “Welcome to Colorado” sign  _ (they probably shouldn’t let us in. 1996),  _ Ray sleeping on the couch face down with Bobby and Rose both sprawled out on top of him (that one was marked only with a heart and a scribbled date: October 22, 1995), Bobby curled up on the couch holding a kitten in his arms and looking amazed  _ (bobby & reggie, 1997).  _ Reggie paused at the last one, his eyebrows knitting together tightly.

“Bobby and Reggie,” he murmured. “Did he seriously name the cat after me?”

Julie laughed hoarsely. “I guess so.” She leaned over to kiss his shoulder. That was how Carrie had always calmed her down, back when they were friends. Reggie sighed. “It is a very cute cat.”

Reggie gave a faint smile. “Yeah, it is,” he agreed. He stared at the photo a little longer before he set it back in the box with the others.

“There’s a lot of them,” Flynn said. She picked the one of Rose by the Colorado sign again. “I mean, clearly they did a lot together.”

“Yeah, but I mean…” Julie sifted through a few more. “None of them are dated after 1997. That’s just… that’s kind of weird. What happened in 1997?”

None of them had an answer to that. Reggie wiped at his eyes again and replaced the photo he’d been holding- one of Bobby leaning on Rose’s shoulder, sound asleep, as she strummed at a guitar  _ (sleepy songwriters, 1997).  _ The silence persisted between them for a little longer.

“Do you think he really wrote it for Luke? The song?” Reggie finally asked, peering over at Julie. There was something fragile in his eyes.

She swallowed hard. “I mean, I don’t know,” she answered. Her voice was almost a whisper, but she couldn’t pull it out any louder without burning her throat to pieces. “I guess so.” Flynn glanced between them, clearly curious, but she didn’t ask, and Julie didn’t have the words to explain. She picked up the piece of paper again and unfolded it again, still trembling.

_ Bobby,  _ it started, and she had to squeeze her eyes shut, because the sight of her mom’s handwriting struck something painful inside her gut. She had to blow out a long, harsh breath that scorched her lungs clean before she could read again.

_ Bobby, _

_ If you ever read this, know that you’re a moron, please. I found Jonquil. She told me everything. I know you miss your friends- of course you do! I only met them once, but I miss them too. I miss that there used to be happiness in you. You’re a goddamn fool if you think that’s not what they would want for you. _

_ Ray misses you. I won’t tell him what you did. He already finds us both so crazy. But he misses you. It’s not the same anymore. _

_ I hope I see you again. I don’t want you to be gone. _

_ Yours, _

_ Rose _

And. Well.

Julie didn’t quite know what to make of that, but she folded it up and placed it back in the box with everything else. “Well,” she said quietly. Reggie and Flynn stared at her, both looking somewhat lost. “Let’s go find the batteries, okay?” she suggested. “I bet Luke and Alex are  _ terrible  _ at Mario Kart.”

Reggie laughed, even though it was choked, and hopped up to his feet, offering a hand down to Julie. “I bet I’m awesome at it.”

“Oh,  _ sure,”  _ Flynn drawled. She nudged the box under Julie’s bed. “I could beat you twelve times out of ten, Reginald. Bet on it.”

Reggie gasped. “Take that back!” The two of them headed towards the closet again, bickering louder with every step. Julie smiled as she drew the door to her bedroom shut behind her.

_ I won’t tell him what you did. _

She couldn’t get the picture of Bobby Wilson out of her mind.

.

.

The clock was about to hit four, and Carrie couldn't sleep. It wasn't that she hadn't tried- she'd laid in bed for hours and hours, eyes closed, breathing slowed, but sleep wouldn't come. All she kept seeing was Nick; the way he'd screwed up his mouth and balled his fists and spat, "We're  _ done,"  _ right into her face. Right in front of Kalya and Cindy. Right in front of  _ everyone. _

She'd been mad.

She wasn't mad anymore. But her chest  _ ached,  _ and the clock was about to hit four, and she kept seeing his face everytime she closed her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she whispered up at the ceiling. It was dark and cold and the words just echoed back at her, but at least it was said. At least she'd gotten the words out. She didn't know how to get them out in person anymore. She didn’t know how to do anything but scoff and spit and claw right back. She didn’t know how to go off defence.

But God, defence was so tiring.

Giving up on sleep, she slipped out of bed, not bothering to be quiet. Nobody was home, anyway. She wasn’t sure where Dad was, but he’d left sometime earlier that week, and she hadn’t seen him since. It was just her and the house and the ghost of Nick’s face behind her closed eyes.

Dad’s room was empty. She flopped down on the bed anyway.

She hadn’t been in here in a long time. She hadn’t had a reason to. Of interesting things in this damn house, Dad and his room were very low on the list. It wasn’t like he exactly invited her in. He rarely even remembered she was there.

Carrie huffed, flopping over onto her side. The bed was too big. Too stiff. How did he sleep on a mattress like this? “Fucking weirdo,” she muttered. It made her feel a little better, at least.

She found herself rifling through his cabinets for something to do. He had a lot of notebooks with unfinished songs and half-written lyrics that she flipped through for maybe twelve seconds before she got bored. There was a box of CDs shoved in the bottom of the drawer. Carrie rifled through them. They were mostly old stuff. 90s hits, 80s best, Queen- something called Sunset Curve? She drew that one out with a little frown. She’d never heard of Sunset Curve.

The house was too quiet anyway. She popped it into the player.

The first strains of some fast, loud, punk rock song blasted out, and Carrie went back to rifling through her dad’s stuff, bobbing her head absentmindedly along. It was a pretty good song. Slightly repetitive. Kind of cheesy. But it got a little smile onto her face before she could help it. Her toes tapped against the floor.

“Livin’ like it’s now or never,” she sang along quietly, dancing to the last few measures of the song before it faded out. There was a moment of silence before the next track started. This one sounded pretty good too. Carrie reached over to turn it up.

There was a short laugh behind her. “You like the demo?”

She whipped around, eyes wide. There was a boy lounging on the bed, arms crossed over his chest, watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite decipher. His shirt- which was way too big for him, by the way, Carrie couldn’t help noticing- had the same logo as the CD. Sunset Curve.

The song playing arched up in energy. The beat was frantic, matching the thrumming of Carrie’s heart in her ears. For the first time, the thought of how alone she was, all by herself in this big empty house, slammed into her like a stone. It was just her and the song and the boy on the bed.

The way he arched his brow was eerily familiar. “Bobby Wilson,” he said, gesturing to himself. His feet thudded onto the floor as he swung himself up. “And you are?”

Carrie screamed.


	2. dissonance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It didn’t feel real. Nothing had felt real since they died.  
> -  
> So. Bobby Wilson was a ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm backkkkkkkk aha ! "jon, why do you update so much?" because im blowing off all my schoolwork. (:
> 
> the mental health issues are strong here. grief/depression are quite heavy themes, so please, please be careful. that being said................ i love this chapter very much and am proud of it, so i hope you guys enjoy!!

**_August 11, 1995_ **

**_9:25 pm_ **

They’d been dead for two months. It didn’t feel real yet.

Bobby was sitting on a stool at the bar he’d worked at, once upon a time. He’d stopped coming into work two months ago. Elliot had fired him after three weeks of silence- not harshly, because Elliot had never been harsh; he’d hired Bobby even when he was too young, even when he was terrible at his job, because he knew he needed the money. Elliot had made him lunches for school when he found out about Mom and offered a place on his couch on the worst nights. He’d let them practice in his garage, even. Elliot had never been harsh. He’d come to Bobby’s doorstep with a bottle of soda and pried the whiskey out of his hands and said, “There, there, you know it’s not what you need right now,” and let Bobby cry onto his shoulder until he fell asleep. And when he’d woken up, he’d said, “I don’t think you need to worry about work right now, okay?” and Bobby hadn’t known how to argue.

Now, he came up to the bar and reached across to grasp Bobby’s shoulder. “Hey, kid. You sure you’re allowed in here?”

“Hell of a time to kick me out,” Bobby replied listlessly. He eyed the wall behind Elliot. “Let me guess. Not gonna give me anything?” Elliot just gave him a look.

He squeezed Bobby’s shoulder before letting go. “You know, I’ve got that CD around here somewhere. The one you gave me.” Bobby winced at the reminder, because Sunset Curve had died two months ago, two whole months ago, and it didn’t feel real yet. “Are you still playing?”

“No.”

Elliot sighed. “You can’t give up everything, Bobby. They wouldn’t want you to give up everything.” He patted his shoulder again. “Something in this world is still worth it. I promise.” Bobby just wrinkled his nose.

“Thanks, I guess,” he mumbled. Elliot gave him another lingering look before he stepped away. Bobby stayed there for another ten minutes before he wandered out the door. The bar was nice. It was warm. Loud enough to drown his thoughts out. He’d been spending more and more time there, watching bands come and go, watching patrons get drunk, watching Elliot get tired. He’d gotten in a fight last week. Some guy had been getting handsy with a girl at the bar, and Bobby didn’t even think. Just punched him dead on the nose. The guy was a lot bigger than him.

Almost everyone was bigger than him, these days, because he’d barely eaten in two months. Every time he ate, he felt sick. Every time he ate, it tasted like it was going to kill him. Everything was dust and dirt and dread.

He didn’t really notice the hunger. It didn’t feel real. Nothing had felt real since they died.

Bobby wandered into a club with a bright sign he didn’t bother reading. He didn’t have anywhere specific to go. Just not home. He couldn’t go home. Mom would still be there, high on something, ready to snap, ready to yell, ready to lose her mind. Bobby had never understood it, the way she ached to erase her own thoughts. The way she used anything she could get her hands on to cave her own mind in on itself. She tore herself apart, ripped her own beating heart out into her hands, and held it there, trembling in her loosening grip. Just like Dad. He’d never understood it.

He’d been drinking every night since June 21. He understood it now.

Bobby watched the band onstage with tired eyes, his fingers tapping restlessly against his own knees. The chair next to him creaked as someone slid into it.

“They’re pretty good, huh?”

Bobby blinked. “Rose,” he said. Just that. Just her name. It said a thousand other things, a thousand silent apologies, because she’d held him in the green room when he fell apart and she’d held him at the funeral Luke would have hated and she’d held him in the cemetery as they stared at the tiny plot of land where Alex had been laid to rest. She’d held him in a back room at a dinghy club the day of Reggie’s funeral, because he hadn’t been invited to that one. Reggie’s parents probably didn’t even know his name.

Rose reached out and took his hand. “It’s okay,” she said softly, because she was good at hearing things he didn’t know how to say. She bit her lip, looking him over carefully. “Bobby…” He glanced down. He couldn’t meet her eyes. Not when he was tired and empty and a moment away from crumbling into dust. “You haven’t been home much, have you?”

“Not really.” He swallowed through a hoarse throat. “Mom’s been… mad. I lost my job.”

Rose didn’t know everything, but she knew enough for her hand to tense in his. “How long have you been out?” He shrugged. “When did you sleep? Eat?” Shrugged again. “Bobby,” she said, her voice half hopeless, her face creasing. “You can’t do this to yourself.”

Bobby hummed. “What’s it matter, right?” he asked. His voice was cracking. “I mean, who knows when any of us are gonna die anyway. It’s random and pointless and everything’s gonna end. So why does it matter what I do to myself in the meantime?”

Rose just held his hand until the song ended, and then she dragged him up to his feet. “Come on, Wilson,” she said. “We’re going home, okay?”

She didn’t let go of his hand all the way back to her apartment. Bobby tried giving her a smile, but it didn’t feel real. Nothing felt real anymore.

At her apartment, she shoved him into the shower instantly, which was probably fair. He tried not to take too long, because he didn’t want to waste her water, but the water pressure at home was fucked and the grout was all cracked, so being able to stand under the steady, hot spray and not see mold in every corner relaxed him more than he cared to admit. He scrubbed at his hair and skin until his hands were raw. It didn’t feel like enough. He didn’t feel clean. He never felt clean.

Rose had left him a pair of sweatpants- “my boyfriend’s,” she’d explained- and a faded Led Zeppelin t-shirt. Both were soft with age. Bobby hadn’t even realised how rough his own jeans and t-shirt had felt until the comfort of Rose’s less grimy clothes settled in. He joined her on the couch, sinking down carefully off shaking legs; she was curled up with a mug of tea to watch some movie. It had a quiet, romantic soundtrack, and Bobby found his eyes getting strained. Rose clicked her tongue and pulled his head over onto her shoulder.

“Sleep,” she murmured. “It’s late,  _ pobrecito.  _ You need your rest.” Her voice was soothing. She continued to whisper, the words tumbling all smooth and sweet over each other, tangling together in his tired ears, until they slipped him off into sleep.

When he woke up again, he was tangled up in a blanket, still laying across the old leather of the couch. He blinked sleepily. The world was still dark outside the windows of Rose’s apartment. He checked his watch. 3:06.

He levered himself up, leaving the blanket on the couch, and wandered towards the quiet sound of humming. He tracked it into the kitchen. “Rose?”

“Oh!” She turned. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” There was a kettle on. Bobby smiled faintly at the scent of chamomile. There was a jar of tea open on the counter, waiting to be steeped.

“You didn’t, don’t worry,” he replied. He gestured at the kitchen table. “May I?” At her nod, he slid into a chair, leaning forward onto his elbows. “Is that your favorite? Chamomile?” he asked.

Rose nodded, taking the seat opposite him. “I used to hate it,” she confessed. “But it’s the only kind my boyfriend will drink. It’s relaxing, you know, and he’s very high strung.” His laugh was almost silent, but it pulled a smile from her nonetheless. Bobby tapped his fingers against the table. His lip was caught between his teeth; Rose noticed and tsked her tongue, reaching across the table to tap reprimandingly at his cheek. “Careful with yourself,” she scolded.

He ducked his head on instinct. The concern in her gaze felt unfamiliar. “Thank you,” he finally said once he had his voice back. “For… all of this. I’ll be out in the morning, but-”

“Absolutely not,” Rose interrupted. Bobby blinked, looking up at her. She was frowning sharply. “Not unless it’s to grab a bag from home.”

“Huh?”

She sighed, standing up to make her tea. “I don’t want to overstep,” she began, almost hesitant. He didn’t know how to describe the look that creased between her eyes. Something sad. Gentler than grief, darker than discontent. It twisted his stomach with guilt. “I don’t want you to leave, Bobby. I don’t think that you should be going home right now.” He shifted awkwardly in his chair. Rose was focused on her tea again, her back towards him. “I saw you at the funerals,” she continued quietly. Bobby felt sick. “I thought… I thought that was the worst it could get. But last night…” The kitchen was silent for a moment. “I can’t see you like that again.”

His stomach twisted again. Still guilty, but a softer kind. “Rose-” he cut himself off. He didn’t know what to say.

It turned out he didn’t have to say anything at all. She pulled down an extra mug for him and gave it to him with a smile. Her boyfriend was right, Bobby decided- chamomile tea relaxed him just fine.

.

.

So. Bobby Wilson was a ghost.

Carrie probably shouldn’t be so calm about it, but to freak out she’d have to think about her feelings, and that was her number one priority to avoid. She had decided he was a ghost based on a short list of evidence:

  1. He’d said, “I’m a ghost,” and she had no real reason _not_ to believe him.
  2. Evidently, he could teleport, because he’d vanished out from in front of her a minute ago, and she had no idea where the hell he’d gone.



So- ghost.

“Bobby?” she called, rounding another corner. Her voice echoed back into her face, and she shivered, drawing her cardigan more tightly around herself. The halls of the house were big and empty and she felt like she was walking in circles, in spirals, drawing herself into a maze of switched off lights and boys who disappeared on a whim. She shuddered again.

Eventually, she found him outside, sitting by the pool. “Jesus,” she said. The pavement was rough and cold under her feet. “Don’t do that.”

“Didn’t mean to,” he replied. His knees were drawn up to his chest, and he was staring down into the water. The lights twinkled off of it, rippling with the breeze. Carrie mimicked his position.

They sat there in silence for a few minutes before she looked over at him again. “So, you’re a ghost, huh?”

Bobby snorted. “Yep. That’s me,” he replied drily. “Been one for a while, actually.” He cracked a grin, but it was empty and kind of frightening, so Carrie just looked back at the pool.

“When did you die?” she asked. Was it rude to ask that? What were the rules of ghost etiquette, anyway?

“1997.”

“Oh.” She swallowed hard. “That’s a long time ago. It’s 2020,” she added, in case he didn’t know.

He hadn’t, if his low whistle was anything to go by. “Damn. 23 years,” he murmured. “They sure waited long enough.”

Carrie frowned. “They? Who’s they?” Bobby didn’t answer. She sighed. “You gotta tell me something. Come on. Where are you from? Why are you here? How did you die?”

“It’s rude to ask how someone died, Carrie,” he said. She rolled her eyes. “And I’m from here. City of Angeles.” He cocked his head. “Well, I’m from Santa Monica, originally. But we moved after my dad died.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “Nah. That guy fucking sucked, anyway.”

He startled a bit of a laugh out of her, but she scowled again immediately. This was a weird ghost boy, she reminded herself. She was not going to be friendly with him. She had to be wary. “How old are you?” she asked.

Bobby tilted his head, screwing up his nose in thought. “Uh- 18. No, wait. 19. Died on my birthday.” He sounded very proud of that. Carrie shuddered slightly. “And you? Tell me something about yourself.”

Carrie bit her lip. “Well, I’m Carrie,” she started cautiously. “Short for Carolynn. Born and raised in L.A. I’m 16.” She stuck out her hand. His passed straight through hers, but they kept them a few inches apart and shook the air, which worked just as well. “Carrie Wilson,” she added. “So we’ve got the same last name.”

“Tight.” Bobby ran a hand through his hair. “You ever met a ghost before, Carrie Wilson?” She shook her head. “Even tighter. I love being special.”

She rolled her eyes. “I bet you’re  _ always  _ special,” she said. “And not in a good way.” Bobby scoffed.

“I make an  _ impression,”  _ he replied loftily. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“There’s something wrong with  _ you.” _

“We met, like, ten minutes ago, you little freak.”

“Oh, shut up. You look like you weigh twelve pounds.”

“Technically, I don’t weigh anything. I’m a ghost.”

Carrie thought about that one for a second. “Okay, fair enough,” she conceded. “Still. You’re sure you meant to say 1997? Not 1797? 1697, maybe? You look like a starving peasant boy.”

“I am not that skinny, first of all-”

“You are.”

“And second of all,” Bobby continued, louder. “I have emotional problems. So I’m allowed to look ugly. Shut up.” He pulled a face at her.

Carrie pulled one right back. “You have emotional problems? Is that the official diagnosis?” she asked, not meaning to sound as disgusted as she did. Oops. She swallowed back the sharp edge of her tone. Her throat felt tight.

Luckily, Bobby looked unbothered. He just rolled his eyes. “It’s what Ray said,” he defended. “Ray’s usually right.” He paused. “Hey, he lived around here too. You ever met him? Ray Molina?” His dark gaze searched her face, sparked with a kind of excitement that lit up even the shadows staining beneath his eyes; as alive as a ghost could be.

Then she processed his words.

She blinked.

“You knew Ray?” she asked, incredulous. “I don’t believe it. He’s never mentioned you.” Bobby winced. Carrie’s eyes went wide, and she slapped a hand over her mouth. She could taste regret like blood pooling between her teeth. “Shit, I’m sorry. I- I didn’t-”

“It’s okay,” Bobby interrupted. “I didn’t expect him to.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Is he doing alright?”

Carrie nodded, then paused. “I mean, he seems okay recently,” she said slowly. “It’s… it’s been rough, though. His wife-” she had to swallow hard past the lump in her throat. “His wife died last year. Cancer.”

Bobby’s breath caught in his throat. His eyes were wide. “Oh,” he whispered, the noise half hitched. He licked his lips nervously. “Was- uh- was it Rose?”

Carrie didn’t want to nod.

Bobby’s entire face crumbled, and she had the sudden, piercing ache to pull him into her arms, this strange, skinny ghost boy with bags under his eyes and a punk boy band on his shirt. Instead, she asked, “you knew her?” and cursed the fragility of her voice.

Bobby gave a hollow kind of laugh. “She was my best friend,” he replied.

There was nothing to say to that.

They stared at the pool together. Carrie pretended not to notice the way he shook. He pretended not to notice the tears that were edging out from the corners of her eyes. Bobby hummed softly- the song itched at Carrie’s brain, like it was something she should know, but she couldn’t put a name to it, so she just let the gentle melody drift around her mind.

She fell asleep on her arms, sitting there by the pool with Bobby Wilson, and woke up with the first rays of sunlight breaking over them. He was stretched out next to her, staring up at the sky. “Morning,” she said.

“Morning.” His voice was still listless.

Carrie swallowed hard and laid down next to him. The pavement was probably going to scuff up her shirt, but that was alright. Her dad’s money was good for something. “I’m sorry,” she said. Bobby rolled over on his side to face her. “I can tell she meant a lot to you.”

He let out a shuddering breath. “She saved me,” he admitted, his voice low and half-broken. “She meant everything to me.”

Carrie wanted to say “me too,” but she couldn’t get it out. Bobby’s eyes echoed something she couldn’t articulate- something dark and rough and on the brink of shattering. Something that swelled up in her chest when she was alone in that big house at night. Something that snaked through her skull and wrapped tight around her brain whenever Nick shone against the back of her eyelids. Something suffocating and stifling and desperate and raw. It was a bittersweet liberation, seeing that staring back at her.  _ “El dolor se irá,” _ she murmured. Just like Rose used to, whenever she was sick or sad. Bobby gave her a smile that made her think he remembered it just the same.

“Don’t cry, Carrie,” he said. His voice was soothing, slow and soft, like the steady beat of a song. She laughed quietly. It was a little choked by the memory of soft kisses pressed against her forehead, but Rose’s voice had been the same, sweet and gentle and lilting with a kind of hushed warmth, and a little cavity in her heart knit itself together at the sound.

So she didn’t cry. She just laid on the ground with him and watched the sun rise over L.A. instead.

.

.

It wasn’t like a voice inside his head. It was more like a nudge against his consciousness. If he ignored the way his ribs jolted, like they were slightly out of place, it almost felt like a thought of his own.

It wasn’t, though. Nick never woke up this early.

_ Please, for the love of God,  _ he pleaded inside his head, even as he stood up and headed for his bedroom door.  _ Thirty more minutes? Ten? Five?  _ His ribs yanked at his throat, tugging it tightly closed, as they jostled with shock.  _ Fine. But the door creaks. _

He spun around and headed for the window instead. The latch flipped open silently, and he crawled out. His heart was in his throat. Maybe. It felt like it was, but his breathing was steady and his face was stoic and his body was perfectly calm. It was a weird dichotomy, like being mirrored, except the reflection was small and weak and trembling inside of an unsteady ribcage. He hated being a reflection of himself.

His bones felt like they rolled out of place. It wasn’t like a voice in his head, murmuring that really, he just hated himself. It was more like it swelled up naturally from the spot where his skull met his spine. If he ignored the way his ribs displaced themselves, it almost felt like a thought of his own.

His skin shuddered with the sick sensation of something foreign crawling underneath his skin.

If he breathed deeply enough, it almost felt like that something foreign was him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so that's a thing that exists now!! plotlines be coexisting!! development!! characters be interacting!! wow!!
> 
> i hope you liked it!! drop a comment to let me know what you thought, or what your theories are, or how your day is going. thank you for reading! i love you all


	3. cracked chords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was so close to a ghost himself, these days. He was so close to being nothing at all.  
> \--  
> It was a strange tune. Almost jazzy. She’d never taken Nick as a jazz fan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm backkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk
> 
> please don't hate me aha !!

“If you knock over one more thing, I swear to God-”

“It’s not on purpose!” Bobby defended. Carrie’s lamp lay by his feet. It wasn’t broken, at least, but she still scowled at him until it was back up on the desk. And then she glared a little more, because she was fucking allowed to. He knocked over her  _ lamp. _ “I thought I was intangible!”

Carrie huffed. “Well, be intangible, then!”

“I’m fucking trying!”

She pinched her nose, trying to breathe slowly. It turned out being a ghost did absolutely nothing for the inherent incorrigibility of a teenage boy. Bobby joined her on the bed. The mattress bounced when he flopped down, and Carrie took a moment to wonder why, exactly, he made an impact on a world he wasn’t even part of, but it brought her mind to morbid places, so she redirected her thoughts to the matter at hand. That, of course, being his reason for showing up at all.

“It’s gotta be the CD,” Bobby said. “It makes sense.”

“Right. But why  _ now?”  _ Carrie asked. “I mean, my dad has clearly had the CD for years. He must have played it before. Why wouldn’t you have shown up then?”

Bobby shrugged. “Maybe it had to be you.” His eyes shifted to the window. “Damn, what time is it? Do you have school?”

Carrie startled, glancing over at the clock. Sure enough, it was well past nine. First period would be ending soon. “Shit!” She pinched her nose again. “Okay, just… don’t break anything, okay?” She hopped up, heading for her closet. “I’ll be back at, like, three. If my dad shows up, stay out of his way. I mean it.” She fixed him with a stern look.

Bobby groaned, sprawling out backwards on her bed. “He probably can’t even see me,” he muttered, but then perked up. “You have a guitar?” He was on his feet in moments, bolting over the stand in the corner.

“Don’t touch that!” Carrie snapped. “It was-” her voice faltered. He froze, glancing back at her. “It was a gift,” she finished. “It’s probably out of tune, anyway.” She hadn’t played it in a year, after all. Bobby nodded slowly. His eyes lingered on the sticker at the bottom.  _ Rose and the Petal Pushers.  _ “It was the first guitar she ever played on stage.”

“I know.” He reached out, tracing a finger over the sticker. “She let me use it once. Just the once.” There was a look on his face that she couldn’t quite parse. Something between fond and melancholy that twisted inside her chest. “I was writing a song for someone,” Bobby said quietly. “She let me use this. She said he deserved something full of love.” His face pinched, clearly pained by the memory.

Carrie crawled back on her bed. “Bring it here.”

“Huh?” Bobby blinked, but after a few moments, he let out a soft, “Oh!” and adopted a focused look to carry the guitar across the room. Carrie opened the tuning app on her phone. It took several minutes- it was  _ way  _ out of tune- but eventually she got it all tightened up and strummed out a gentle G chord.

She leaned over and pulled a notebook out of her side drawer. “I have some unfinished stuff in here. Help me with it?” she asked. Bobby blinked.

For a second, she thought maybe she’d overstepped, but then his face split into a grin. “Of course.” He flipped the notebook open, already humming, and Carrie couldn’t help but grin back.

.

.

He’d spent twenty minutes down by the pier, watching a man in a blue hat play the violin. It had taken ten of those for him to notice the faint, shimmering outline he had, and the way nobody stopped tip him, or even acknowledge that he was there. It had taken until now, two hours later, for the familiar dismal feeling to come rolling in. He’d spent twenty minutes watching a ghost in a blue hat play the violin. He’d spent twenty minutes listening to music so carefully crafted it made his whole body sing, and nobody else had heard it, and nobody else cared, because nobody else could see it. Because he’d been listening to music that was really nothing at all. He’d been listening to a ghost.

He was so close to a ghost himself, these days. He was so close to being nothing at all.

A shock jolted just under his skin, and he shuddered, nearly dislodging his pen from his hand. The girl next to him gave him an annoyed look. “Sorry,” he mumbled. She just rolled her eyes. He wanted to scream, to yell, to cry, to tell her that  _ he can’t help it,  _ that he can’t help  _ any of this,  _ that he’s  _ hurting  _ and it  _ wasn’t his fault,  _ it  _ wasn’t him,  _ there was something foreign under his skin and he couldn’t  _ breathe,  _ he couldn’t  _ sleep,  _ he couldn’t  _ smile,  _ he couldn’t do anything but what Caleb let him do. He couldn’t do anything but listen to ghostly music and pretend that nothing had changed.

But Caleb didn’t let him scream. So he just mumbled, “Sorry,” and she just rolled her eyes.

It was interesting, really, because sometimes, he wasn’t quite sure what he was choosing or not. Taking notes for class- him, surely, because Caleb didn’t give a fuck if he passed the test on Thursday or not. Humming a song under his breath that he was near certain he’d never heard- well, probably not him, for self-explanatory reasons. Tracking his eyes across the classroom and waving at Julie when she caught his eye- it was funny, because he wasn’t sure.

It wasn’t really funny. It was terrifying. But Caleb found it funny when Nick was terrified, and Nick was almost nothing, and Caleb always won out, so it was funny.

Julie waved back.

Nick was almost certain the satisfaction in his stomach wasn’t his own.

He couldn’t be sure, though. So he just kept taking notes and let his thoughts fall under.

.

.

“I wish I could eat,” Reggie sighed, rolling over so that he was half on top of her.

Julie yelped as the shifting weight made her pencil skid. “Reg!”

“Sorry!” He stopped moving. Julie sighed, a fond little smile playing at her lips, and erased the mark, rewriting her answer to number 3. She hated American Lit with a  _ passion,  _ but Reggie made the endless worksheets and paragraph analysis a little more bearable. Luke and Alex never hung out with her when she did her homework. Luke got distracted too easily, and Alex couldn’t refrain from pointing out when she got things wrong, which led to them glaring at each other until one of the other boys broke it up. So it was a Reggie thing. She was okay with that, though.

“I wish I could eat,” he said again.

Clearly he was looking for a response. “And why is that?” Julie asked patiently, squinting at the next question. Was “How the hell am I supposed to know?” an acceptable answer on a homework worksheet?

Reggie gave another heavy sigh, his whole body echoing with it, sending little tremors down into Julie’s spine where he was sprawled over it.  _ “Because,”  _ he groaned, his chin dipping down to rest on her shoulder, “There are sixteen flavors of Coke in the world, and I’ve only ever had one. How is  _ that _ fair?”

Julie couldn’t keep from laughing. She almost dislodged him, but he tightened his grip on her with a small yelp, chin digging more firmly against her shoulder. “That’s drinking,” she pointed out, tilting her head just a little to look at him. “And I doubt very many people have had all sixteen flavors anyway. I know I haven’t.” Reggie made a face. “Chin up, bud. You have good things, too!” she encouraged him, trying to get that grin back.

Instead, he wrinkled his nose. “Like  _ what?”  _

Julie thought about it. “Well,” she started, and wrote another sentence on her worksheet. “You’ve got me. And the guys.”

“That’s true.” She’d earned his grin, and she couldn’t help from smiling equally as wide, his infectious warmth spreading into her. “I’ve got you,” he repeated, his voice quiet but overwhelmingly gentle. Julie doodled a little heart in the corner of her sheet. Her chest felt like it might burst.

There was the unmistakable sound of someone poofing in. “Julie, I came up with- oh.”

Reggie rolled off her immediately, his legs swinging over the side of the bed. Julie’s head jerked up, feeling in some inexplicable way like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t. Luke was standing a few feet away with his notebook dangling from one hand. Julie took a steadying breath. “A new song?” she asked, sitting up. She folded up her binder and set it aside before patting the space on her other side. “C’mere, show me.”

Luke’s eyes flitted between her and Reggie for a moment. There was a thick anxiety in Julie’s throat, but she swallowed it down. There was no reason to be nervous. She and Reg had always clicked, and both of them had always been a little clingy. There was nothing wrong with cuddling a friend, anyway. “C’mere,” Reggie echoed, his voice impossibly soft. Julie’s chest settled into something steadier, something overwhelmingly warm, at the way Luke’s shoulders relaxed. “Come sit down, Luke, come on.”

“Of course,” Luke said. The bed rattled as he flopped down, knocking Julie over into Reggie, but nobody seemed to mind. She pressed her forehead into the side of his knee for a moment longer than she needed to. Just long enough to be intentional. Reggie needed touch, she knew, needed it like water, needed it in order to feel grounded and whole. Luke’s appearance jerking him away from her so quickly would have upset him.

He was smiling down at her when she turned her face back towards Luke. If it made her turn a little pink, well. It was warm out today.

Luke shoved his notebook under her nose. “Okay, so look at this,” he said, face bursting with the kind of excitement he only got talking about music. “I wrote these lyrics while you were at school today, and Reg helped me come up with this  _ killer  _ melody. You’re seriously gonna love it, listen-” he hummed a few bars. Julie nodded along, tapping an experimental beat against the open notebook page.

“Sounds like In The Night,” Reggie remarked.

Luke made a face. “Well, yeah. I guess I had some inspo left over.”

“What’s In The Night?” Julie asked, glancing between them. Luke’s nose was wrinkled up tightly. Reggie seemed unconcerned by his apparent distress, which was a little strange. Reggie was normally a mirror to all their feelings. He fed off the energy of the people around them, twisting it around to project it into himself.

Now, though, he just reached over to knock Luke’s shoulder lightly. “One of our old songs. Lukey wrote it for a  _ lover  _ of his,” he said teasingly.

Luke rolled his eyes. “I did  _ not,”  _ he muttered.

“Did too!”

“Did not!”

Reggie knocked his shoulder again. “Sure, man,” he said, laughing. Julie snickered, pressing her forehead against the side of Luke’s leg like she’d done to Reggie earlier. “It was a Sunset Curve classic. Damn, I loved that song.” He sighed wistfully. “Maybe we can play it again sometime.”

“Maybe,” Luke muttered, but his face had softened the way it only did for Reggie, and Julie knew it was a yes. Luke was bad at telling Reggie no. She got it, though. It was hard for her too, honestly.

Reggie’s hand fell down Luke’s arm to land on Julie’s shoulder. He squeezed. “You’re a Sunset Curve fan, aren’t you?” he teased.

She rolled her eyes. “Maybe. Runs in the family, right?” Reggie laughed. Luke glanced between them, confused, and Julie felt obliged to explain. “I was looking through my mom’s old stuff recently and found a Sunset Curve shirt,” she explained. “And my dad had one, too.”

“Your dad had a Sunset Curve  _ crop top,”  _ Reggie corrected her. She nodded, conceding to the vital detail.

Luke looked like he wasn’t sure to believe them or not. He glanced between their faces with raised eyebrows. “Crop top?” He asked doubtfully.

“Hell yeah!” Reggie said. He squeezed Julie’s shoulder. “Hey, Jules, you should ask him about that,” he suggested. “Maybe he’ll let you wear it.”

“I could wear my mom’s,” she pointed out. Reggie shrugged. Luke snorted. His hand knocked Reggie’s off her shoulder, taking its place. Their hands felt different- Luke’s fingers were shorter, held on a little tighter, rough with callouses- but it was still the same warmth that spread through her chest at the touch, so she didn’t protest. Reggie’s hand rested lazily on her back, his thumb stroking at her spine. It felt nice. “I love you guys,” she said.

Luke leaned down to kiss the top of her head. “Love you too, Jules.”

“Yeah, love you,” Reggie echoed. He didn’t kiss her head, though.

She kind of wished he would. That wasn’t weird, right?

The knock at the door jostled her out of her thoughts. It also jostled Luke and Reggie away from her, though, and she was frowning as her dad called, “Julie, there’s someone at the door!”

“Okay, coming!” She pulled a face as his footsteps echoed away, rolling up and off the bed. “Wait for me, okay?” she ordered with a stern finger pointed at her boys. Luke instantly latched himself onto Reggie, knocking both of them down across her covers. Julie rolled her eyes, unable to help the fond smile curving up over her mouth, and let the sound of their laughter light her up from the inside as she closed her bedroom door behind her. She hopped down the stairs two at a time and gave Carlos a wave as she passed through the living room to the front door. “Oh, hey!”

Nick smiled at her. “Hey, Julie! What’s up?”

“Not much.” She leaned against the doorframe, taking him in. He’d parted his hair on the opposite side as normal, she noticed. It looked… nice. A little strange, but nice. “Why did you come by?” she asked. She and Nick had been on pretty good terms. She had to say she was relieved- she hadn’t wanted her rejection of him to ruin their friendship, and it was good to know he wasn’t holding a grudge.

Nick shrugged, his hands shoved in his pockets. “Honestly, I was just bored,” he admitted. “And I never got your number, so I couldn’t text. I was wondering if you got any new gigs? I’d love to come see you.”

Julie laughed and held out her hand. “Here, give me your phone,” she said. “I’ll put my number in.” Nick unlocked it and handed it over easily. There was something peculiar to his smile for a moment, she thought, but it was gone as easily as it came. She shook it off. “There you go!” She input her name as Julie!! with two exclamation points, and he laughed slightly when she handed it back to him. “I’m playing at the Sundown Club on Saturday. 8pm,” she told him. She couldn’t help from smiling when he instantly opened his Notes app to jot it down- even with the (slightly overwhelming) online support, it always made her a little giddy to know someone was interested in her music. “If I get anything else, you’ll be top of the mailing list,” she promised.

“Thanks, Julie,” Nick said, tucking his phone away. “You know I’ll always try to get front row tickets to your shows.” There it was again, the brief flicker of something over his face that didn’t seem quite right. Julie’s smile faltered. “See you at school?”

“Yeah. See you at school, Nick.” She watched him leave, whistling to himself. It was a strange tune. Almost jazzy. She’d never taken Nick as a jazz fan. You learn new things every day, huh?

Luke and Reggie were still waiting for her when she got upstairs, Reggie loudly complaining as Luke poked at him. Julie stayed in the doorway to watch them play wrestle for a minute, smiling. They didn’t notice as she stepped inside- the door clicked shut at the same moment as Reggie managed to flip them over, and the noise was lost in their laughter. Julie threw herself on the bed and was automatically inducted into their idiocy, with both of them teaming up to tickle her, but she was okay with that.

They got tired quickly enough and rolled off, their hands linked loosely over Julie’s stomach. She leaned her head over onto Luke’s shoulder. “Missed you.”

“Missed you too,” he said. It was more honest than she’d been prepared for. Her heart skipped a beat. Reggie kissed her temple, like a silent agreement. It felt like the sun had burst inside her chest.

So maybe that was a little weird. But not weird enough to keep her from kissing his shoulder in return. She put Nick and his unnerving smile out of her mind for now.

Maybe she could ask him tomorrow what was wrong.

.

.

He didn't get much time to think anymore. It was always out of his control. Out of his grasp, just barely. Sure, he got up, he got ready, he said hi to his dads, he went to school, but he didn't remember any of it. He didn't remember anything. That was the worst part of it all, not remembering anything. He didn't really mind his thoughts being blockaded away- he didn't have anything worth thinking anymore. But now it was late afternoon and Caleb had nothing to do, so he was resting lazily somewhere under Nick's skin, leaving his mind untethered.

He didn't want his mind untethered.

He didn't want to admit that, though. He couldn't give into the thought. That was what Caleb wanted, he knew. Wanted him to give up on himself. Wanted him to hand his body over. Wanted him to settle down as a spectator and allow Caleb to wreak the havoc he intended. Sometimes, in the late afternoon, it was almost tempting. It almost sounded okay. Sometimes, Nick just didn't want to have to think anymore.

He was laying out on his bed to stare at the ceiling. The soft buzzing Caleb's energy inside his chest kept him awake- he'd wanted to take a nap, but evidently that wasn't permissible today, so instead he let his mind wander to its will.

How long had it been, now? Two months or so? Two months of his life, wiped out by electric shocks across his insides and a steady presence in his head. Two months of his life that he'd never remember. Two months of his life on scraps of sleep, stolen when Caleb was too bored to care what he did. Two months of playing some deranged game inside his own head, lost in someone else's thoughts, lost in the cracks that Caleb was prying open in him. Lost in the feeling of not having to think.

There was a soft tug at his mind, and he scowled. "No," he muttered. He wasn't going to go out easy. If Caleb wanted this body, he’d have to fucking fight for it. Nick would  _ fight  _ him for it. No matter how many days went by with dots in his vision, no matter how many nights his human hunger went disregarded, no matter how many times he stumbled under the weight of nothing and went tumbling to the ground, he’d get back up and he’d fight, even if he was fighting alone. Even if nobody noticed and nobody reached out a hand. He could hold his own hand. He could sew those cracks back together without help. The needle might fumble, his hands might tremor, but he hadn’t gone two goddamn  _ months  _ with this inversion inside him to give up now.

It was a nice thought. There was no fire behind it, really, because Nick knew perfectly well that the story wasn’t going to end all nice and neat like that. There was no battle here. It was him and Caleb on an empty field, surrounded by nothing and no one and no point to the emptiness, to the loneliness, to the weighted game he hadn’t asked to play. It was chess, and he was the king, and there were no friends to guard him. He was open. Vulnerable. It was chess, and Caleb had been waiting three turns to checkmate. Three turns, three chances, two fucking months.

Nick didn’t want to play chess anymore. He just wanted to go to sleep.

The energy under his skin burned brighter, bursting along his nerves like fireworks. His eyes must have been drifting closed. Caleb didn’t want him to sleep today. He wasn’t sure why. Sometimes, the things Caleb did had no point. He only played for control, anyway.

Nick didn’t want to be controlled. But he knew the ending already. That was the benefit of playing this goddamn game on the inside of his own head, where it all echoed back into him. He knew how Caleb’s last move would go down. He knew he was standing alone, a stranded king with no moves left to play, surrounded by Caleb and Caleb and Caleb alone. He was just another checkmate. He was just another lonely piece to control.

Nick didn’t want to be controlled, but he knew the stakes of the game. It was an empty field, with just a king and control. There was no point. There was just the overwhelming, ever approaching end.

He was going to be playing chess inside his head for the rest of his goddamn life.

.

.

**_August 17, 1995_ **

**_1:34 pm_ **

True to her word, Rose had kept him at her apartment for another night, and then another, and another. At this point, sprawled out over her living room floor with a bowl of cereal and a 200-piece puzzle he just could not solve in front of him, Van Halen playing in the background as she laid on the couch with a book, he was certain he’d overstayed his welcome. She hadn’t kicked him out, though, so he kept putting the puzzle pieces together and stirred his cereal absently.

“Stop that.”

He glanced up. “Huh?”

Rose gestured to his bowl. “Stop that,” she demanded again. “Stirring it. It’s weird.”

“It’s not weird!” he defended. “You stir soup!”

“Cereal is not soup!”

Bobby scoffed. “But isn’t it?”

“No! No?” Rose frowned contemplatively. “Don’t make me think about this. It’s way too early for that.” Bobby thought about pointing out that it was 1:30 in the afternoon, and therefore very much not early at all, but he was interrupted by the door opening.

Rose shot up, closing her book. “Oh, honey!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t know you were coming over today!” She scrambled up to her feet and practically threw herself into the arms of the man that entered the room. She pressed kisses across his cheeks, interspersed with something she was saying in Spanish that Bobby couldn’t understand, as he pulled her in tightly, laughing. He looked back down at his puzzle, feeling a little like an intruder. “It’s been a crazy week,” Rose said behind him. “That girl from my class, Kathy, you remember her? She’s pregnant, and now she’s mad at me all the time, and I adopted a child-”

“I’m seventeen,” Bobby deadpanned from the floor.

Rose tsked her tongue. “You think cereal is a soup. You’re a child.” She turned back to her visitor and patted his cheek. “I adopted a child, and he is very temperamental,” she repeated, adding the last part in a stage whisper.

The man waved. “I’m Ray,” he greeted, his amused grin still lingering on his face. “Nice to meet you, Rose’s child.”

Bobby rolled his eyes, but hopped up to shake his hand. “I’m Bobby. And I’m not a child.” Ray just kept grinning. He huffed. He  _ wasn’t  _ a kid. Just legally. And barely! “I’m eighteen in two months!” he whined. 

Rose stuck her tongue out at him. “Shush,  _ miho,”  _ she said, which both made him scowl at her and made him feel all disgustingly warm inside. “This is the boyfriend, by the way.”

“I assumed, considering how you attacked him when he got here.” Rose looked offended. Ray just looked proud. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Boyfriend. You come up in every conversation.”

“He does not.”

“He really does.”

Ray laughed, kissing Rose’s head again before letting her pull away from the hug to kick Bobby in the shin. “Well, I for one am glad to hear it,” he said, and Rose melted, and-

Well, Bobby wasn’t exactly sure why he had to look away. But something about her face all open and earnest and happy like that brought to mind another pair of eyes, and another smile, and another thrum of guilt went like thunder through his chest. He felt his mind twist in on itself, bringing back every moment all at once, every time Luke had ever grinned at him like that, every time they’d laughed together, and his lungs drowned themselves in lead. He stared at his feet on Rose’s apartment floor, wearing her socks, wearing Ray’s dumb red sweatpants, and all he could see was the red lights of the ambulance. His ears were ringing with a thousand words that were never said, a thousand promises that were never made, a thousand chords that were never even written-

It’d been forty six days since they died, and it suddenly felt all too fucking real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter wasn't necessarily INTENDED to be nick angst central but really. what's new
> 
> i love you all, thank you so much for reading!! i hope you enjoyed!! drop a comment to let me know!!


	4. cognition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You get a deal, you take it, right?"  
> -  
> Nick was going to kill Jonquil.  
> -  
> or; nobody quite knows, but couldn't they be close? Couldn't they find that next step somewhere?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahahahaha im so TIRED

In her defence, she had no way of knowing.

She and Bobby were sprawled out on her bed, fixing up a few errant chords, and she hummed a little riff that she thought might fit, and he said, “Showoff,” because he was annoying, so she shoved him, and he went crashing to the floor, and- well, she had no way of knowing.

Her door swung open. “You good, Carrie?”

“Oh, Dad!” Her head snapped up. Bobby got to his feet, still laughing, but the noise choked off as he saw her dad at the door, and he froze almost painfully in place. Carrie glanced anxiously at him, then back at her dad. He raised an eyebrow in some kind of concern. “I’m fine,” she hastily said. “I… dropped my pencil.”

“You dropped your pencil,” he repeated flatly.

Carrie met his eyes with an innocent smile. “I dropped my pencil,” she repeated. Dad looked like he was about to say something else, but just shook his head and closed the door. She waited until his footsteps faded away, and then jerked towards Bobby, her face falling. “What’s wrong?”

He was still staring at the door. His whole body was rigid, drawn tight like an arrow string; Carrie could feel the tension in her own chest, ricocheting with it. “Carrie Wilson,” he finally whispered hoarsely. “Fuck. Carrie-” He stumbled back until he ran into her wall. His face was pale.

“Bobby?” She was up on her feet in a second. “Bobby, oh my God, what’s wrong? Was it my dad? I-”

“What’s his name?” Bobby demanded.

Carrie blinked. “What?”

He pointed at the door. “Your dad,” he said, voice shaking. “What’s his  _ name?” _

It took a moment to gather her thoughts. “Trevor. Trevor Wilson,” she replied slowly. Bobby barked out a shaky laugh, sinking to the floor. He mumbled out a curse. “What’s going on?” she asked. She couldn’t help the octave her voice jumped. Her body was trembling inside.

Bobby curled in on himself. “Trevor Wilson,” he mumbled. “He changed his goddamn  _ name-”  _ his words choked out, twisting into something like a sob.

“Bobby-”

He shook his head, and then he was gone. Just vanished straight into the air, leaving Carrie halfway across the room with one hand outstretched. She let out a shuddering breath. The whole world tasted bitter on her tongue.

She could hear Dad playing music down the hall. Meditating or something, probably.

“Oh,  _ fuck  _ it,” she snapped.

She slammed the door behind her.

Somehow, she doubted he’d heard.

.

.

It was pure luck, and it also wasn’t; it wasn’t lucky at all. Actually, it was horrific how quickly his insides turned straight to dust- not that he had much in the way of insides anymore, considering his… general state- but it was pure luck all the same. He came stumbling out onto the sidewalk and slammed into someone, knocking them to the ground. “Goddammit!” That wasn’t the lucky part.

“Wha- you ran into  _ me!” _

“Yeah.” Bobby offered a hand. “Sorry. Haha.”

The guy gave him a weird look, but accepted the help up. “Did you just say “haha” out loud?”

“I was… laughing,” Bobby defended. “You fell. It was funny. I thought it was very funny that you fell. Haha.” The guy raised an eyebrow. Bobby cleared his throat. “You good?” he asked, bouncing slightly on his toes. The awkwardness was getting to him.

The guy still looked half-amused. “Yeah. I’m fine.” He stuck out a hand. “Willie.”

“Bobby.” Willie had a nice handshake. “Nice to meet you.”

Willie smiled, just a tad too sweetly. “I wish I could say the same.”

Bobby ran a hand through his hair. “That’s probably fair.” Willie snickered, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Whatcha up to, Willie?”

“Oh, you know, the usual,” Willie replied drily. “Being dead, wandering aimlessly, mourning my ability for human connection.”

Bobby winced. “That’s rough,” he said, because he didn’t know what else to say. Was that rude? Was there even etiquette for this conversation?

Willie’s lips twitched. “You know what else is rough? Getting shoved to the ground.”

“I said sorry!”

“You  _ also _ said it was very funny!”

“I-” Bobby searched for an answer, but came up with only a huff and crossing his arms. Willie kept grinning. “Yeah, anyway,” he said, but he didn’t have anything to follow it up with, so he didn’t say anything.

Willie nodded sagely. “Yes.”

So. The conversation? Definitely not the lucky part. The lucky part came when Willie said, “What brings you to Hollywood?” and Bobby replied with, “Oh, being dead,” and then shrugged, because what can you do, and accidentally elbowed some guy so hard that he went stumbling.

“Goddammit!” Bobby said, a little louder than before, because  _ seriously? _

The guy straightened himself up, frowning, and pushed himself off. It was some highschool kid, all blonde and big-eyed, wearing a faded hoodie with some logo on it. Looked like a band name, maybe. All Stars. “Why are you yelling? You shoved m- hi, Carrie!” He gave the fakest laugh Bobby had ever heard.

He whipped around, eyes widening when he saw Carrie striding up the sidewalk towards them. Her eyes didn’t shift to him, though. She just pulled on a pretty little smile and said, “Oh, Nick! Why aren’t you in school?”

“Maybe he forgot where it is!” Bobby suggested cheerfully.

Willie blinked. “Dude, what?”

“I don’t know, he just looks like the type-”

“Did you forget where it is?” Carrie asked, her voice dripping with concern.

The kid- Nick- just stared at her for a moment. His voice was dry when he replied. “No. I didn’t forget. I just wanted…” His eyes darted up across the street. “I wanted to get a… coffee.”

Carrie’s smile widened. “Oh, well, in that case, let me buy you one,” she offered sweetly. “Unless…” her eyes slid open a little wider, her lower lip swelling in a pout. She was good at tugging the strings on people’s emotions, Bobby would give her that.  _ He  _ felt guilty looking at her, and he hadn’t even done anything. “You don’t want to hang out?”

Nick blinked. “Carrie,” he replied after a moment. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t buy me a coffee. What kind of gentleman would I be?”

“A feminist,” Bobby said, because he could, and Willie pinched his nose, looking pretty damn disappointed for a boy he’d only met five minutes ago. “Oh, shut up.”

“You shut up. I didn’t even say anything.”

“I can read minds.”

“No you fucking can’t, that’s not-” Willie cut himself off, watching in bewilderment as Carrie and Nick headed across the street. “Alex,” he breathed, and then he was gone, and Bobby was alone again. Which was what he’d intended in the first place, of course, but it was still odd, because he’d been surrounded just moments ago. He didn’t really notice that, though, because he was busy staring at the other side of the road, feeling the insides he didn’t have turn to dust all at once.

It had been twenty five years.

Twenty five goddamn  _ years,  _ and hadn’t it felt real before? It certainly had felt real enough to drain bottles of alcohol and drain sunsets of color. It had felt real enough to send pain through his bones and pain through his head and pain through his veins and his arteries and his hands until it was too much and he had to feel nothing at all. It had felt real enough to wake him up with a shout at night. It had felt real enough for screaming into pillows and sobbing into Rose’s shoulder. It had felt real enough to drain the light all away. Fuck, it had felt real enough to  _ kill _ him.

But it had never felt like it did now, watching Alex pull Willie into his arms, watching Reggie and Luke laughing and making fun of them, shining and bright and  _ real.  _ And  _ dead. _

They’re all dead. That’s kind of terrible, isn’t it?

Even with his senses all broken and dulled, all overwhelming by the ringing in his ears, by the way his chest is heaving with breath he didn’t even need, Bobby noticed, in some vague, distant way, how Carrie glanced over her shoulder at him, looking concerned. And he noticed, in some vague, distant way, when Nick glanced over at her with a frown. And he noticed, with a jolt, that Nick sidestepped around Luke.

Twenty three years wasn’t long enough to forget.

Bobby screwed his eyes shut. Fuck. “God have mercy,” he murmured, because he should have  _ known. _

In his defence, though, he’d had no way of knowing.

.

.

Nick was going to kill Jonquil.

Well, actually, Nick had no clue who Jonquil was. But Caleb was going to kill Jonquil, and Nick was Caleb was angry was Nick was all confusing,  _ fuck  _ this shit, and anyway, Nick had hands and Caleb didn’t and Jonquil was going to die by them.

_ She’s already dead, Nicholas,  _ Caleb said, in a rare moment of cognitive distinction. God, his voice was so  _ annoying. _

Nick’s ribs jolted like they were being pulled, so harshly that he stopped breathing for a moment. Distinction over, evidently.

“Are you okay?” Carrie asked, her hand fluttering slightly towards him like she might lay a hand on his arm. Nick almost wanted her to, maybe. In those moments like this, when they’d gone out on dates and it’d been just the two of them, Carrie’s presence had always been comforting. Not that he’d ever needed comfort before now.

He didn’t need comfort now, either, because he was doing something worthwhile for the first time in his miserable life, and that was most certainly not his own thought, fuck off, Caleb. Except Caleb couldn’t fuck off because Caleb was Nick was okay was Caleb was smiling and holding the door open for Carrie. “Of course, sweetie,” and don’t call her that, what the hell, “Just a bit tired.”

“Well, then we better get you some coffee.” And she smiled back.

And Nick felt sick, because  _ fuck,  _ Caleb shouldn’t get to smile at her. Carrie is petty and she is bitter and she hurt him, but Carrie is strong and she’s smart and she’s talented, and she doesn’t believe any of those things, and when he missed her- which he didn’t, because Caleb didn’t allow him to, because Caleb had some weird obsession with Julie that made Nick’s stomach turn (except his stomach didn’t turn because his stomach was Caleb’s was his was Caleb’s was fine)- he missed being able to sneak through the back door late at night and pet her hair and tell her she was strong and smart and talented. He missed being the one that kept her smiling. He didn’t miss the bitter or the petty or the disgust she’d stirred up in his gut when she said something catty, but he missed  _ her.  _ Although he didn’t, because Caleb didn’t, and Nick was Caleb was nothing at all.

Carrie was smiling, though, and Caleb was smiling back, and Nick was stuck somewhere between the two of them, stretched so thinly that he was ready to break.

“What do you want?” he asked, or Caleb asked, or whoever.

“Just an iced coffee,” Carrie said, sweet as anything, and Caleb kept smiling, and if Nick could breathe then he would scream.

Carrie ordered iced coffee when she was upset.

Carrie  _ only  _ ordered iced coffee when she was upset.

Carrie was upset.

But Caleb didn’t know that, and Caleb was too busy smiling at Carrie to pull it out of the dissonance in histheirNick’s mind, and Caleb didn’t deserve to comfort her anyway. So he ordered Carrie an iced coffee and listened to her talk about One Direction. And Nick stayed between them, stretched out so thin that he was nothing at all, and let the dissonance pull him under.

_I don’t like you,_ he thought, and if he had gotten a moment of cognitive distinction, Caleb would have said _I don’t like you either, Nicholas,_ but he didn’t and his mind stayed melded so he thought Caleb thought he thought Caleb thought about Carrie and he thought Caleb thought he thought about bagels because he needed a distraction.

He sang Night Changes inside his head.

He hated himself. He was pretty sure that was just Caleb, though.

.

.

Nick called her at midnight and asked if he could have a bagel in the morning.

“Yeah, sure,” Julie said, slightly startled. “Are you coming by, or..?”

“Can you just bring it to school?” he asked, and the exhaustion in her voice made her take pause. “Just… in the morning. Before first period. Can you, please? I’ll be by Carrie’s locker.”

“Okay, Nick,” she said, and there was a shuddering kind of breath. “Tomorrow morning by Carrie’s locker.” She wanted to ask why Carrie, because hadn’t they broken up, were they getting along again, was he okay, but... but he sounded so tired. “Get some sleep,” she said softly.

Nick laughed, and it almost sounded like a sob. “Okay, Julie. I’ll get some sleep.” But it was broken and bordering on deranged, and when he said, “Goodbye,” it rang too deeply in her bones. She didn’t want to hang up. She didn’t want Nick to say goodbye just yet.

“Stay safe.”

“Always.”

Julie didn’t know why that made her throat tighten, but she managed a soft, “Goodnight, Nick,” and her voice only shuddered a little.

“Get some sleep,” Nick told her, and then, “I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll- I’ll see you tomorrow.” He was breaking right here, right now, right on the phone line with her, and Julie wanted to say something, wanted to fix it, but she didn’t know how.

What if he was made of glass? What if she broke him with a stray word?

What if he was like Carrie? What if he walked away?

So she said, “I’ll bring you your bagel, Nick,” and listened to him breathe like he didn’t know how, and then she said, “Sweet dreams. Wake up bright and early,” because somehow she felt like if she didn’t remind him, he wouldn’t wake up at all.

“Bright and early,” Nick said. “It’ll be a pretty sunrise.” His voice was distant.

“We should watch it together sometime.”

Nick was quiet for a moment. “Maybe we can,” he finally said. “Thank you, Julie.”

Her eyes stung. “Always. Get some sleep for me.”

“I will.” And he doesn’t sound certain, but he doesn’t sound on the edge of shattering, and sometimes that was all you could ask, wasn’t it?

She brought him his bagel.

(It was funny, though, because he took the bagel with shaking hands, because he smiled at her with chapped lips, and his eyes were wide and blue and  _ tired- _ but he smiled at her in English, and he looked so alive. Maybe it was the bagel. Julie wasn’t sure, though, and she wasn’t sure she liked it.)

(She certainly didn’t like the way his face flashed, falling back into exhaustion, and his pencil dug sharply into his arm. But she didn’t like the way he relaxed back a moment after. Like he was coming back into himself.)

(It was funny, though, because it was like two different people, just in the same body all at once.)

.

.

“How do you know my dad?” Carrie asked. She was tucked up on her bed, watching as Bobby plucked at the guitar, sounding out an old tune he somewhat remembered and somewhat lost.

“I don’t,” he answered frankly. “Probably should’ve. But you know how it is. You get a deal, you take it, right?”

Carrie blinked. “What?”

“Yeah,” he said, and then set the guitar aside. “Go to sleep, Carrie.” And then he was gone. And it didn’t make any fucking sense, except maybe it did, and Carrie was too tired. So she went to sleep- not because he told her to, just because she was exhausted.

Nick’s eyes had been so flat today. Not the way they had been when he’d screwed up his mouth and balled his fists and spat, "We're  _ done,"  _ right into her face in front of everyone, lit up with righteous anger, but devoid of any anger at all; devoid of any ache. Devoid of anything. Nick was a lot of things, but he wasn’t simple. He didn’t fit in two dimensions.

Nick wasn’t meant to look empty like that. But there weren’t meant to be ghosts in her house either, so Carrie went to sleep before she did anything stupid like call and ask if he was okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl . i kinda forgot the plot for a hot sec in the middle. but like........... here ya go. bagels (:
> 
> i love you all thank you so so much for reading


	5. family ties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There was no guarantee?” she parroted shrilly. Her breath was coming in quick, sharp bursts, like sparklers inside her lungs. “You threw your life away on a _maybe?”_  
>  -  
> or; Carrie finds out how Bobby died, Nick finds out what makes Caleb go cold, and Flynn finds out revenge isn't as sweet as moving on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah this chapter. is a chapter. it's a chapter. if u hate it that's my fault but i'm gonna claim it's not. i don't hold liability

She found him down at the beach, lying halfway under a broken umbrella someone had abandoned. It was a rainy, dreary morning, and she kicked him in the ribs lightly; he rolled over, allowing her to take some sort of shelter against the downpour. It just passed through him, of course. Lucky bastard.

Well, he wasn’t lucky. He was dead. But Carrie had her suspicions about that, anyway, so. He remained a lucky bastard for now.

She nudged at his side with her foot again. She’d forgotten her shoes, trying to get out of her house before either her dad or the man hanging around their kitchen that she didn’t recognise tried to interact with her, so she was just wearing her socks. (Well, not her socks. Nick’s socks. The old white ones he’d left at her house the day he’d helped her come up with the WOW choreography and okay, time for a new train of thought before she made herself sad.) “How are you?” she asked, mostly for the sake of saying something.

Bobby’s head rolled towards her. There was a frown cinching his brows together. “My dad died thirty two years ago,” he replied.

Carrie didn’t really know what to say, so she settled on, “I’m sorry,” and wrapped her arms around her knees, pulling them to her chest. Bobby just shrugged.

Then he said, “Your dad’s dead, too, you know,” and-

And first she said, “What the fuck?” and then she said, “What the fuck?” again, but with more feeling this time.

Bobby just shrugged again.

“Dude, no, you don’t get to shrug and vanish this time,” she said, putting a foot on his chest. “Also, stop doing that. But more importantly, what the fuck?”

"Your dad's dead," he repeated. His voice was hollow.

Carrie’s immediate thought was to leave, because Jesus  _ Christ,  _ she didn’t have time for this bullshit- but Bobby's face and voice were unflinchingly solemn, and she was sitting under a broken umbrella with a ghost at nine on a rainy morning, wearing Nick's socks and a Taylor Swift shirt, and it was all surreal enough, and- “What do you mean?” she asked, because fuck her, but she trusted him.

Bobby sighed, pushing himself up. “Sunset Curve started in ‘92,” he said, his voice flat. “It was… I mean, it was our everything.  _ We  _ were our everything. The guys-” his voice broke. “The guys were my family. They were my whole world, Carrie, they were…” he took a deep breath, his hands digging desperately into the sand as if he could keep grip like that. “I needed them,” he said quietly.

Something like apprehension stirred in Carrie’s gut. “What happened?”

“They died,” he said, and it was plain and simple and straightforward, and Carrie didn’t understand, but she thought maybe she had an idea.

“What did you do?”

Bobby took a deep breath, one that was desperate and rough and rattled all the way through the bones he didn’t have anymore. “They were dead, Carrie,” he said hopelessly. “I mean, they- they were everything to me, they were everything I was living for, and they were dead. It wasn’t- I mean, what  _ could  _ I do? I would have done anything to go back, but I couldn’t go back, I-”

“Bobby, what did you  _ do?”  _ she interrupted. Her lungs and her spine and her bones were all stiff, frozen, trembling in the limbo between what she already understood and what she didn’t dare assume.

He laughed. It was empty. “When you get a deal, you take it, right?”

“You-”

“I just wanted to see them again. It was the only chance I had, Carrie, you’ve got to understand that.”

Her ears were buzzing. “Okay, but what- what’s this got to do with my dad?”

Bobby laughed bitterly and kicked at the sand. “He wanted a second chance,” he said, his voice flat. “He wanted-”

“He wanted to come back to life,” Carrie finished. “Yeah, he wrote a song like that, but I didn’t- God, that’s  _ literal?  _ You-” The world felt like it was spinning around her. The wet sand was working its way through Nick’s socks. “You gave him your body?” she asked, her voice trembling.

Bobby swallowed hard. “She said I could come back,” he said quietly. “If the guys ever needed me, I’d come back.”

“If?” Carrie repeated.

“Well, there was no guarantee they had any unfinished business-”

“There was no guarantee?” she parroted shrilly. Her breath was coming in quick, sharp bursts, like sparklers inside her lungs. “You threw your life away on a  _ maybe?” _

Bobby sounded indignant. “I didn’t throw it. I politely handed it over.”

“Oh my God-” Carrie pinched her nose, breathing in and out deeply in an attempt to regain her calm. Bobby was humming something under his breath. She frowned- it sounded familiar, but she couldn't place from where.

Her eyes traced over his profile- over the tilt to his eyes, the way his lips were twisting slightly, the curve of his brows, and  _ fuck,  _ it's got to be true, doesn't it? She's never seen pictures of Dad when he was younger, but Bobby's got the same face, just unweathered and a bit thinner, a bit more hollow. There were shadows of grief caught in his features that she had never seen on her dad. "Huh," she said, a little breathless. "You're my dad."

He wrinkled his nose. "Only biologically. God, I can't imagine me as a father."

"I can't imagine you as a father either." She kicked his shoulder. "One of the most important parts of being a parent is being willing to  _ stay."  _ Her voice was more vulnerable than she'd intended, and she ducked her head, staring at her socks. Nick's socks.

He cut a glance over to her. "Are you upset?" he asked. His voice was soft.

"I couldn't sleep last night," she admitted. "Just… give me a warning, okay? I can't… don't just  _ leave." _

"I won't," he promised, and reached over to touch her knee. "I'm sorry. I just had to get away." His face contorted briefly. "I knew I was giving my body up to him, but I just-" he took in a shuddering breath, grip on her knee tightening. "He changed his name. I gave him my whole life, and he just threw it away. Just like that. And I know that's- I mean, I know I agreed to it, but was I really that easy to just forget? He just… torched everything about me, and nobody cared?"

Carrie placed a hand over his. "You said it yourself," she replied gently. "He wanted a second chance." She rubbed her thumb over his knuckles, breathing in the salt off the wind. "I don't think-" she started, and then her voice cracked completely, and she fell silent. She took a deep breath, cleaning her lungs out with the rain, and tried again. "I don't think anybody would care if my soul changed," she admitted. "They… sure, they'd notice. But I think they'd just let it go. It wouldn't matter to them. Who I  _ am  _ doesn't matter to them, just so long as my body's around. Who cares about the soul inside it?" Her voice, her spine, her lungs, they'd all gone taunt, scraping against the inside of her skin. "They don't care who I am. They only care about who they see when they look at me."

Bobby was quiet for a long moment before he flipped his hand over, tangling their fingers together. "I care," he said.

Carrie's eyes stung. "Yeah, well," she said, and that was all she said, and he dragged her forward so that her head could fall into his shoulder.

He kissed her head, like an instinct.  _ "El dolor se irá," _ he whispered.

"Thanks,  _ Dad." _

"Shut up, Carolynn, we're having a nice moment."

It was nice. She curled up further into his side, disregarding how odd it would look to any onlookers; no sane person wandered the beach at nine am on a Thursday in utter downpour anyway. Bobby was warm and solid and held on tight to her hand, and the ocean was wide and grey and thrashing before them, and it should have been tumultuous. It should have been a wrathful storm, an empty comfort, a broken kind of morning. But there weren't meant to be ghosts in her life either, so Carrie let the wind blow into her lungs, and she let all the poison in her bones fly away. The grey of the water and the sky and the soaked fabric of her socks blended all together in a soft palette, one that tasted sweet under her tongue. It was a nice moment. It was as good of a morning as she'd ever really known how to have.

She tangled her fingers into his shirt. “Hey,” she said. “Hey, Bobby.”

“Mm?”

“So you’re a ghost.” She tugged at his shirt. “But I can touch you. And I can touch your clothes.”

He blinked. “Yes? Where are you going with this?”

“It’s just like… are you made of air?” She tugged at his shirt again. “Also, if I can touch your shirt, does that mean if I  _ wore  _ your shirt, everyone else would just think I wasn’t wearing a shirt? And what would happen if you tried to put on my clothes? Would people just see walking clothes?”

“...Are you suggesting an experiment?”

“...And if I am?”

Bobby jumped to his feet, dragging her up with him. “Thank  _ God.  _ I saw this one sweater in your closet yesterday that looks soft as hell, I wanna wear it so fucking bad- you have such good taste in clothes, by the way. You really are my daughter.”

Carrie laughed, linking her elbow through his as they headed back up the beach. “Rose always helped me put outfits together for school. My mom… well. She left years and years ago, so Rose liked to- you know.” She leaned her head against his shoulder a little, because the solidity helped chase away the shot of sadness that fell down her throat when she said Rose’s name.

“Oh shit, you have a mom,” Bobby said. She burst out laughing. “Oh, shut up, I didn’t-” he was red. Ghosts could blush? That didn’t seem right. “I didn’t- I was never even  _ in  _ a relationship, okay?” He paused. “Well, unless you count my intimacy with depression.”

“Can’t believe I’ve gotten more action than my  _ dad.” _

He dropped her arm. “Alright. You’re disowned now.”

.

.

**_December 14th, 1995_ **

**_11:29 pm_ **

“Do you think I’m a bad son?”

Ray set down his tea. “Excuse me?”

Bobby traced his finger along the grain of the kitchen table. “I haven’t seen my mom since August,” he admitted.

“Oh.” Ray blinked. “Sorry, give me a second. I thought you meant, like, to Rose and I.”

“Not your son.”

“Well.” Ray made a face that said,  _ yes you are,  _ and Bobby rolled his eyes, but there was a warmth somewhere under his ribs. “What’s your mom’s name?” Ray asked abruptly after a moment, stirring his tea. The spoon clicked against the china. It was rhythmic. Everything Ray did was; he was solid, steady, swaying in time. It was easier to breathe when Ray was around. Something about him eased the anxiety of the everyday.

Bobby stared at the side of his mug. “Milah,” he murmured. Her name fell off his tongue like it always did, heavy and dull, crashing through his teeth with a dim rage.

“Milah,” Ray repeated. He set his spoon aside and took a sip of tea. Chamomile. It really was his favorite. “Tell me about Milah,  _ cachorro.” _

Bobby’s eyes did not sting. They didn’t. They most certainly, definitely did not. They just… twinged a little. He swallowed hard, tracing at the wood again. “Well, uh- she doesn’t really like me that much,” he started. Ray’s eyes flashed with something weird, and he flinched. “I don’t- I’m not trying to whine, I swear, it’s not-”

“Bobby,” Ray interrupted. He reached across the table, catching his hand. “It’s okay,  _ cachorro.  _ It’s okay. Breathe. I’m not upset with you.” He gave a little smile, one that was sad and sweet and made Bobby’s eyes twinge again. It was the same one Rose gave him whenever his eyes lingered on the guitar for a moment too long. (He didn’t play anymore. She wanted him to, though.) “I just wish you didn’t have to say that. I wish you didn’t have to feel that way.”

He shrugged weakly. “It’s fine. It’s always been that way.” He laughed as well as he could, ducking his eyes away from Ray’s again. “I was, uh- she used to live in Santa Barbara. That’s where she grew up. But she was…” he pulled a face. “She was young. And people started to talk, you know, and she always resented me a little bit for that, I think. And then Dad...” His lungs shuddered. “It was, uh- it was HIV,” he admitted. Ray’s hand tensed in his, but he didn’t let go. “Off needles, you know, so it’s a miracle she didn’t get it too. But people… you know, they talked. So we moved here. Like a fresh start, except nothing’s better.”

Ray was silent for a moment, and then he said, “Do you like it here?”

“In Los Angeles?”

“No.” He gestured around the apartment. “Here. With Rose.”

Bobby blinked. “Yes. God, yes. It’s… I’ve never been safe. Not like I’m safe here.”

Ray squeezed his hand.  _ “Tu familia es tu ancla,”  _ he said firmly. “We’ll keep you safe. Just let us hold onto you,  _ mijo,  _ okay?”

“Okay,” Bobby whispered. He breathed in and out through his mouth, trying to steady his heartbeat, and then tried a,  _ “lo siento,”  _ that was clumsy and inflected wrong and made Ray light up like the fucking sun anyway. “That was terrible.”

Ray shrugged. “I’ll let it slide. You have emotional problems.”

“I have  _ what?” _

Ray got up to pour another cup of tea. “Emotional problems,  _ cachorro,”  _ he said amusedly.

And- well, he wasn’t  _ wrong. _

.

.

“Come over?”

“Sorry?” Nick asked, blinking. “I mean, I-”

There was a laugh from the other end of the line. “I’m not trying to seduce you, Nicholas,” Carrie said. “I just really need help with my AP Lit essay, and it’s due tomorrow, and you don’t have practice on Thursdays, do you?”

“No, I don’t. Just give me a minute, sweetie,” and stop calling her that, for the love of God, I know you only do it to annoy me, Caleb, and Carrie just laughed again. “I’ll be over as soon as I can,” and I’ll sneak in the back door and I won’t feel a tug of nostalgia in my stomach because my stomach is Caleb’s is okay is Caleb’s isn’t mine.

“I’ll be waiting.” Don’t say that, because your voice is so light, is so sweet, is making Caleb laugh all coy, and I can’t be laughing all coy, because  _ God,  _ Carrie, I miss you, and  _ God,  _ Carrie, you can’t let yourself get dragged into something like this- but Caleb was laughing all coy.

Nick snuck through the back door like he had a thousand times, and Carrie was sprawled out on the couch wearing a shirt that made his soul go cold. “Cute shirt,” he remarked, or Caleb remarked, because there was a chill running down his spine and he didn’t for the life of him know why. What did Caleb care about her shirt? “Getting into 90s tunes now?”

Carrie laughed. “Since when do you say  _ tunes?” _ she asked, and then swung up onto her feet. “And Sunset Curve is  _ classic,  _ mind you. Awful bold words from a man who listens to All Stars.” And her grin was so bright, and Nick’s stomach would have flipped if Nick’s stomach was still his.

“Hey, I’m bold,” he protested, and he almost sounded like himself-

Something shifted in Carrie’s eyes. Something darker, something strange incited inside them, and Nick was cringing was frowning wasn’t reacting at all, because Caleb couldn’t read Carrie’s eyes like he could.

“A friend of mine introduced me to them,” she said, and her voice was all sweet still, and it made Nick shudder, and it didn’t affect Caleb at all. “She’s lovely, really. Her name’s Jonquil.”

And Nick had no clue who Jonquil was. But Caleb was shuddering was stiffening was going to kill Jonquil, and Nick was Caleb was angry was Nick was suddenly stumbling, was getting his breath caught in a hole in his throat, was empty and shattering and crumbling to the floor.

.

.

She didn’t really want to be here. Actually, she  _ really  _ didn’t want to be here. But Julie had been worrying all day, and she’d been rambling for twenty minutes after school about Nick, about how he’d looked  _ just terrible, Flynn, I think something’s wrong,  _ and Julie was… well, she was Julie, and her heart was too big, and she worried too much, and she protected as easily as she breathed. And she was Julie, and Flynn couldn’t stand to see Julie upset. So she’d stopped by Nick’s house- the weirdest experience of her life, because  _ Sharpay fucking Evans  _ had opened the door, and Flynn literally didn’t know how to cope with that- but he hadn’t been there. And Nick was popular, was sweet, was cute, but Nick had never, ever been charming, so Flynn knew for a fact that he didn’t have many friends. He was a drifting kind of guy. Exchanged an equally bright smile with everyone. It was kind of cute, in an infuriating, Disney Channel way.

Anyway. Nick didn’t have many friends. So here she fuckin’ was.

Carrie yanked the door open and said, “Flynn?” and Flynn said, “Sunset Curve?” and Carrie slammed the door shut.

She opened it again after a second. “Sorry. Uh-”

“Can I come in?”

_ “Uh-” _

Flynn was already brushing past her. “Are you sick or something? You haven’t been at school in days. Nick was asking about you in music. Have you seen Nick? Is he here?” She shoved her hands in her jacket pockets, strolling towards the living room.

“Wait, no, Flynn, please don’t-” Flynn froze. “Go in there,” Carrie finished, sighing. “Okay. Look-”

“What did you do to him?”

“Nothing! He just passed out-”

_ “What?” _

_ “I don’t know!” _

Nick was sprawled out on the ground, pale and shadowed and damn near corpse-like, looking still enough to make Flynn’s heart skip a beat. She scrambled over to his side. “Holy shit,” she murmured. She pressed fingers to his neck- a pulse, thank God- and laid a hand on his forehead. “Oh, Jesus.” She swallowed hard, swinging her head around to look at Carrie again. “How long ago did he pass out? Tell me exactly what happened,” she demanded.

“I don’t- I don’t really know,” Carrie stammered. “Uh, he just- he came over to help with my AP Lit essay, and when he got here, he just-” she screwed up her face, clearly thinking. Her nose still twisted up the same way it always had, Flynn noticed, and then immediately tried to un-notice, because that definitely wasn’t relevant right now. “He asked about my shirt?” Carrie offered. “And then he just… collapsed.”

_ Is Sunset Curve some kind of curse?  _ Flynn thought, because how did everything associated with this dumb boy band end up getting so fucked? She shook off the thought and took a deep breath, hooking her arms under Nick and lifting him.

Carrie let out a small gasp. “You’re strong,” she said breathlessly, obviously on complete impulse. Flynn stared at her. Carrie stared back. “Right,” she said after a moment. “Not the point. Okay. Uh- can you get him up to my room?”

“I can try?”

She almost dropped him twice, but eventually she dropped him onto the bed. Carrie instantly came fluttering around both of them, pressing an icepack into Flynn’s hand with a stern, “Hold it to his head,” and pulling the covers up around Nick’s shoulders, and fetching another blanket, and saying, “Oh, Flynn, you’re soaked, you’ll get water all over the wood-” and throwing a pair of clothes at her and- well, Flynn didn’t quite know when she started smiling, but it was sort of funny, sort of relieving, to see uptight ice queen Carrie melting down into  _ this. _

“Mom friend,” she teased.

Carrie frowned. “We’re not friends,” she said. It didn’t sound mean, though, just confused, and Flynn’s heart flinched with something like regret instead of irritation.

She might have snapped something, any other day, but Nick was passed out with a fever and Carrie was fluttering like a little concerned butterfly, so she said, “We were,” and then she said, “Sit down, Carrie, come on,” and pushed her down onto the bed. “Where’s your essay,  _ papiyon?” _

Carrie blinked. “Um.”

Flynn rolled her eyes. “You’re fluttering everywhere.  _ Ti papiyon,”  _ she teased. “Just relax.”

Carrie huffed and pulled her backpack up onto the bed with them. “Bully,” she muttered. “Relax. Psh. Nick passed out in my living room, and you want me to relax-” She pulled out her laptop, flipping it open. “It’s about  _ poetry,”  _ she said, wrinkling her nose. “I fucking hate poetry.”

Flynn snickered. She settled on Nick’s other side, because if she sat next to Carrie they’d be pressed almost completely together, and that was a little too much. Carrie had been nicer the past few days, and it was endearing to watch her bustle about all concerned, but that didn’t alleviate the bitterness that had lodged in Flynn’s heart these past few years. “Well, me too, but I’ll try my best,” she said. Carrie’s face flickered with a little smile.

Flynn didn’t really want to be here, but here she was, so she pet Nick’s hair absentmindedly and said, “Show me what you’ve got,  _ papiyon,”  _ and, well- maybe it wasn’t so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nick: *having So Many Problems*  
> flarrie: haha time to be Soft
> 
> anyway!! i hope you enjoyed!!! thank you all so much for reading and please let me know what you thought!!! i love you all ((:


	6. wagers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was just that a little traitorous part of Bobby, tucked right up against his heart, wished he could be happy with them. Wished he could feel the warmth of his friends, of his family, as brightly as they felt it with each other.
> 
> But Sunset Curve was happy, and Bobby Wilson was dead, and he just had to deal with that.  
> -  
> or; there's always a little more to the story. You'd think they'd have figured that out by now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am !!! alive !! and back with !! my favourite fic !! i missed her wow
> 
> tw for mentions of death/implications of suicidal thoughts. if you don't want to see that, skip the scene that start with "December 22, 1995" and I'll summarise in the bottom a/n ((: enjoy!!

_ My head hurts, _ he thought.

“Aw, I’m sorry,” a familiar voice replied, and Nick’s eyes shot open. He’d only thought that, hadn’t he? He’d only been whining. Caleb didn’t whine; it wasn’t Caleb’s business whether Nick was hurting or not. Nick had been inside himself, inverted, interlocked with something much stronger than his own soul, talking only in thoughts, talking only in echoing dissonance. There was nothing left of Nick in his own voice.

Carrie’s hand cupped his cheek. “Hey, hey, breathe,” she said soothingly, and Nick became all too suddenly aware that his chest was heaving, his pulse jackrabbiting into his throat.

He grabbed for the nearest solid thing and ended up knotting his fists into her shirt. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t fucking  _ breathe,  _ his head was spinning and his whole body hurt and he couldn’t breathe- “Carrie,” he gasped out, but it didn’t sound quite right; it was too high, too young, too  _ Nick.  _ “Carrie,” he said again, and holy fuck, he was saying it. He was him was Nick was saying something. “Carrie, Carrie, Carrie-”

“It’s okay, Nicky,” she murmured. She leaned across him for a moment, saying, “Hold this,” and then she slid down so that Nick could properly cling to her. She carded a hand through his hair, scratching gently at his scalp. “Shh,” she whispered. “It’s okay, Nicky. You’re okay.” He let out a muffled sob into her shoulder. “I’ve got you, baby.”

Another pair of hands rubbed gently at his back. “Just breathe,  _ mimi,”  _ someone- Flynn, he thought, but that didn’t make much sense- said in his ear. Her forehead pressed into the back of Nick’s shoulder. “You’re safe.”

“You’re safe,” Carrie echoed. “You’re safe here. We’ve got you, Nicky. We’ve got you.”

It felt twenty years before his breaths stopped hitching painfully. He curled further into Carrie’s neck as the tension gradually left his muscles, seeking her warmth. He hadn’t realised he was so  _ cold.  _ “Carrie,” he murmured again, and his voice was still too high too young too Nick, but it’s calmer. “Carrie- Flynn?”

Flynn propped herself up on one elbow, leaning up so that he could see her. “Hey, Nicky,” she greeted. Her hand was rubbing soothing circles on his side.

Carrie kissed his forehead. “You scared me.”

“Us.”

“Us,” she amended, rolling her eyes. “Flynn was also scared.”

Flynn’s arm snaked between Nick and Carrie, pulling him back against her. “I was  _ more  _ scared,” she corrected.

Nick blinked. “Uh,” he said, very intelligently. “I- sorry?” Carrie glared at him, and he instinctively shifted so that he could press his face into her shoulder. “Sorry,” he said again, but softer, pressed against her shirt. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” He should be uncomfortable, probably, tangled up in his ex-girlfriend’s bed with her and a girl he’d hardly spoken to since middle school, but- well, he was cold. Everywhere and all of him, down to the bone, was trembling with the chill. And Carrie had always been clingy, anyway. Not in public, but once they were away from prying eyes, away from the judgement that made her skin crawl, she’d clamber into his arms or his lap or burrow into his side. She’d tug his arm around her shoulder on the couch, or hold his hand over the console in his car, or lay her entire body over his during a movie. Carrie lived, ached, for familiarity and intimacy and comfort, and in a year, she’d turned Nick into someone that craved it just as much. The tender hand in his hair and the possessive hold that Flynn had around his waist swelled his whole chest full of content. How long had it been since he touched someone? Caleb didn’t bother with it.

“Caleb,” he gasped, jolting, but the girls held on tight.

Flynn reeled him back into her. “Hey, hey, breathe,” she said. “It’s okay. What’s wrong? Who’s Caleb?” Her voice was so soothing, so calm, and Nick couldn’t breathe, because how the fuck was he breathing on his own?

“Listen to her, kid.”

Nick jerked, staring up over Carrie’s shoulder. “Who the fuck-”

“Bobby, what the hell!” Carrie exclaimed, swatting at him. “Go away-”

“Is that a fucking  _ ghost?”  _ Flynn interrupted. Her gaze was fixed on Carrie’s hand. “Is there a fucking ghost in here?”

For a moment, no one moved, and then Bobby said, “Yes,” and Carrie said, “Shut  _ up,”  _ and Nick said, “I have a ghost in my head,” because he was tired and cold and needed someone to know. Carrie and Flynn both stared at him, wide-eyed, but the guy standing above them- Bobby- took a seat on the edge of the bed and smiled at him.

“Is that Caleb?” he asked. “The ghost in your head?”

Nick swallowed hard, but he nodded.

Carrie glanced between them anxiously. Her lip was caught tightly between her teeth. Bobby flashed her a small, comforting smile before he looked back at Nick. “How long’s he been there?”

“Uh…” Nick screwed up his nose, trying to think. “I don’t…” he squeezed his eyes shut. “Two months?” he guessed. “A while. I don’t know, exactly. It’s hard to- I can’t keep track of it.” Flynn’s grip on him tightened. Her chin hooked onto his shoulder.

Carrie reached up and touched Flynn’s cheek lightly, and it was almost like she was touching him, and it was the closest to happy he’d felt in two months. “Are you okay,  _ angelito?”  _ she asked quietly.

Flynn made a noise that was sort of like a laugh. “I though you said we weren’t friends,” she replied, and then she pressed her nose into the space right below Nick’s ear and sighed. “I just… I’m worried. About all of this.”

“About my essay?”

_ “Especially  _ about your essay,” Flynn teased, and Nick snorted before he could help it. Carrie pulled a face at him.

Her fingers traced from Flynn’s cheek to his, gentle and soft and achingly familiar. “Okay, baby,” she said. Nick was fairly certain she didn’t even notice the nickname- Carrie gave affection like rain when she was feeling fit for it, and it was more comforting than painful to hear her call him baby again. “I’ll admit I’m not a ghost expert, but can you tell me a little more? Just talk to me.” Her fingertips warmed the chill of his bones.

Nick exhaled shakily, leaning further into Flynn’s arms. “Okay,” he said faintly. “Uh- well. His name is Caleb. He, uh- I don’t really know what he wants?” His voice cracked on the end of the sentence, and Carrie’s face twisted up, like the splintering edges of his psyche were stabbing her. She pressed a kiss to his forehead, and Flynn murmured something in Creole that he couldn’t understand, and Bobby whispered some comfort in Spanish. “Why do none of you speak English?” he muttered.

“Because we’re gay,” Carrie replied, and kissed his forehead again. “Now. Ghostie.”

“Ghostie,” he echoed. He couldn’t keep from smiling up at her, just a little. “He just sort of- I can’t tell the difference between us all the time, you know? But it  _ hurts.  _ It’s like- it’s like my bones. They hurt. And it’s like I’m- it’s like I’m  _ trapped,  _ you know, like I’m in some stupid box and I’m being sawed in half, and there’s no way to escape because I’m the one holding the saw and  _ my hand won’t stop moving,  _ and I just- fuck!” He crumpled forward into her chest, his breath heaving sharply.

Carrie shushed him gently, pressing kisses to the top of his head, to his temple, to his ear- or no, that was Flynn, curling further over him, and it wasn’t a kiss, it was just the brush of her lips as she murmured, “You’re safe,  _ mimi.  _ You’re alright. You’re safe.”

“But I’m not,” he choked. “I’m never safe, Flynn, I’ll never be safe. I can’t even eat, I can’t even sleep, I can’t do  _ anything,  _ I can’t even think, because I’m not me, I’m  _ not me,  _ and I don’t even  _ like  _ me but I would do anything, I would do  _ anything,  _ just to stop being him. I just wanna stop being him, Flynn, I just wanna-”

She pressed a hand over his mouth. Her eyes were steely. “You’re  _ safe,”  _ she repeated, and fuck, something about her voice made Nick’s heart skip a beat. “We’re gonna keep you safe.”

“We’re gonna get you out of the box,” Carrie agreed. She brushed his hair back from his face, wearing a sad little smile. “I promise, baby.”

“Whatever it takes,” Bobby said. His voice was quiet, but it was certain. “You’re going to be yourself again. That bastard doesn’t stand a chance.” Nick snorted.

Carrie cast a grateful look over her shoulder at the ghost. “Whatever it takes,” she echoed.

Flynn’s lips brushed over his ear again by virtue of how close she was, and Nick almost didn’t feel cold. “Whatever it takes.” She kissed his cheek, then paused. “Am I allowed to- Carrie did, so-” Nick cut her off, something golden and giddy coursing through his chest.

“You’re allowed.”

Carrie kissed his forehead again. “Nick likes to be adored,” she teased, grinning. Bobby rolled his eyes and vanished, muttering something about teenagers.

“So do you,” Nick protested. Carrie hummed, neither confirming nor denying his very true counterpoint.

“Well,” Flynn said. She kissed his cheek again, but her hand slipped from around his waist to drape over Carrie too, dragging all three of them closer together, and she leaned over him to kiss her cheek too. “I guess I have a lot of cuddling to do, then.”

Carrie had stars in her eyes. “I guess so,” she whispered. She kissed Flynn’s cheek in return, leaving a smear of pink lip gloss. Flynn wiped at it with a wrinkled nose, but she was smiling.

_ Gay,  _ Nick mouthed. Carrie kicked him beneath the covers.

.

.

He didn’t actually expect to see them. He’d come here on instinct- it was where he’d always come, back in the day, when he felt bad or when home was too unstable. Elliott’s garage. It wasn’t Elliott’s anymore, of course- it belonged to some other family now, one with a daughter a few years younger than him. He didn’t know her name.

“Julie, I swear-”

Or. Well. He didn’t know her name until now.

Bobby peered over the edge of the loft, trying to stay hidden. His heart rose into his throat, pounding against the inside of his oesophagus, beating like it was trying to beat free. Julie was stood on the piano bench with Luke’s notebook in hand and high in the air. He was trying to climb up, but she kept kicking him back- it was gentle, though, a soft kind of kick, one that didn’t make Luke do more than look offended. Reggie was slumped across the sofa, watching them with a fond grin as he plucked at his bass strings. Bobby had never seen his face like that- it was open and bright and utterly  _ enamored,  _ staring at Luke and Julie like they were the only thing in the world. Alex had clearly noticed the look too. He was staring at Reggie with one raised eyebrow and a smirk twitching at the edge of his mouth. He twirled his drumstick around in his hand and rapped it against Reggie’s hip, making him yelp. “Enjoying yourself?”

Reggie blinked once and then scowled. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Y’all good over there?” Julie asked, somewhat breathless through her laughter.

Reggie’s face instantly snapped back to a grin as he fixated on her again. “We’re  _ so _ good,” he replied. And if he was a little breathless himself- well. Only Bobby and Alex seemed to notice. Julie just blew him a kiss and went back to terrorising Luke. An admirable pastime, really.

It should feel nice. He should be happy. And he was, really! This was- this was everything he’d been aching for. This was everything he’d been pleading the universe to allow. His band, his boys, happy and laughing and teasing each other, the way they were meant to be. Sunset Curve, bright together. It made his eyes sting- because fuck,  _ finally.  _ Finally. They were safe. They were okay. They were home.

Except-

Except Bobby couldn’t really breathe watching them, because Sunset Curve, bright forever, and it only happened once he was gone.

That was irrational. He knew it was. It wasn’t because of him that they were okay now. None of them had… had fit. They hadn’t been made for the world they were born into. They were out of place from their earliest moments, and now, finally, they’ve found their peace. They’ve found their  _ meaning.  _ They had to die to find what they were born for, and that’s morbid and depressing as hell, but at least they’re finally happy. It was just that a little traitorous part of Bobby, tucked right up against his heart, wished he could be happy with them. Wished he could feel the warmth of his friends, of his family, as brightly as they felt it with each other.

But Sunset Curve was happy, and Bobby Wilson was dead, and he just had to deal with that.

He wondered if they ever thought about him. If they ever wondered what he did without them. He wondered- he wondered, and he sat in the loft, and the boys kept laughing with Julie below him.

He wondered.

He didn’t really want to know, though.

.

.

**_December 22, 1995_ **

**_1:30 am_ **

“Get down.”

Bobby swallowed hard. Shifted his weight. “I will.”

“Now,” Rose said. Her voice was steely, but it was shaking. “I mean it, Bobby. Get the hell down.”

The L.A. skyline sprawled out in front of him, brilliantly decorated with the lights of the early morning. Offside, the Orpheum sign blinked at him. He felt sick. His toes edged a little closer to the edge- just a little closer. Just a little further into the whipping wind. “I will,” he repeated. His voice was dreamier than before. “Just give me a minute, Rosie.”

Rose’s breath shuddered harshly. “Bobby,  _ please,”  _ she said.  _ “Te quiero, mijo.  _ Please get down. Please.”

He kicked one foot out, almost absentmindedly. It dangled in the open air for a split second before it scraped back onto the ledge. “I just…” he blew out a long breath, letting it mix with the broken night wind. “I miss them.”

“I know.”

“So much,” he continued. “You know, it’s like- it’s like every time I wake up in the morning, I’ve got this- this hole in my chest. I’ve got this fucking chasm, except not really, you know? Not really, because I am the chasm. They’re gone. They’re fucking gone. And there’s just…” He raised his arms out to the side, tilting his face up to the moon. It was full tonight. “Nothing left,” he finished softly. His arms fell back to his sides.

Rose’s voice was thick. “I know. I  _ know, _ Bobby, I- I lost my brother too.” Bobby’s breath rattled in his lungs. “Years ago, now, but- you’re not alone,  _ mijo.  _ I know. I’m with you. Ray is with you. I have a sister, up at UCLA. I want you to meet her, you know, I really do.”

Bobby licked at his chapped lips. “Yeah? You think she’ll be impressed with your weird roommate?”

“I think she’ll be impressed with my best friend,” Rose replied firmly. “I think- I think she’ll be so proud of him for making it through this. I think she’ll probably think he’s super rad.” Bobby laughed despite himself. There was a moment of silence between them. “His name was Willie,” she continued. Her voice had gotten quieter. “He wasn’t my blood brother. He was adopted, you know, but he was a few years older than me, and I never knew life without him. I never wanted to.”

Bobby stayed silent for a moment longer, choking on the question, before he asked. “What happened?”

Rose edged a little closer. Her hand stretched up, almost on instinct, and Bobby linked their fingers together. “He was skating,” she recalled, and then laughed, almost silently. “He was always skating. Always got in trouble for it. He was a dumbass.” Bobby snorted. Rose smiled up at him, but it faded away after a moment. “He was sixteen,” she said. Her face contorted slightly, but she kept going. “We were down by the pier. Watching him practice his kickflips. And the, uh- the cops showed up. Willie always bolted when they did. Every time. So he bolted.” She closed her eyes tightly. “Bolted straight into traffic,” she finished.

That hung in the air for a while, heavy between them.

“I bet he’d be proud of you,” Bobby finally said. “You always break the rules.”

Rose laughed, even if it was dim. “You always break them with me,” she replied. Bobby conceded to the tug on his hand and stepped down. “I’d be a chasm without you, you know,” she murmured.

Bobby glanced back at the skyline for just a moment before he squeezed her hand. “I know.”

Maybe things weren’t so bleak, as long as Rose was there to breathe the broken wind in with him.

.

.

Flynn called around noon. Julie picked up immediately. “Hi! I thought you were coming over today,” she said.

There was a hissed  _ shut the fuck up,  _ and then Flynn said, “Yeah, it’s crazy, I was totally gonna, I’m super sorry, babe, I just-” Someone in the background said,  _ “Babe?”  _ and Flynn’s voice pulled away, muttering,  _ “Shut the fuck up, I’m trying to talk to Julie-” _

Julie frowned. “Who are you with?” she asked. That hurt a little, knowing Flynn had forgotten about her for someone else.

“Uh…” Flynn laughed nervously. “Okay, so, like, you’re totally not gonna believe this-”

“Do you have a secret relationship or something?”

“No!” Flynn yelped. There was a moment of fumbling, and then another voice came through the receiver, saying, “I mean, if she  _ wanted-”  _ but they were cut off by Flynn’s shriek.

Julie blinked. “Carrie?”

Flynn sounded exhausted. “I just wanted to check on Nick for you, since you were worried- yes, it is sweet, both of you shut the fuck up- and he’s doing bad! So I was helping him out!” She gave another nervous laugh. “Please don’t hate me?”

“No, no, not at all-” Julie closed her eyes tightly, trying to wrap her mind around the new curveball the batshit god watching over her life had thrown. “Okay, so you’re at Carrie’s? Can we hang out tomorrow, or like..?”

“Well, uh…” there was brief shuffling, and then Carrie was talking down the line again.

“You can come over if you want,” she offered. “Dad is out with some new guy from the gym or something, I don’t know, so like. Plenty of room. Plus, it might get this parasite off the love of my life, so-”

_ “Wait, which one of us is which?”  _ Flynn asked in the background.

Julie could tell just from her voice which smug smirk Carrie was wearing. “Yes,” she replied sweetly. Julie snorted. “But yeah. The door’s open.”

“Okay,” Julie agreed, still half-wondering what the fuck was going on. “Yeah, sure. I’m on my way.”

“Fuck yeah!”

Flynn apparently wrestled her phone back. “You don’t have-”

“Hey,” Julie said, cutting her off. “I don’t mind. Seriously. And Flynn?”

“Yeah?”

She shoved her Vans on. “I could never hate you. Real low, zero, remember?”

“Flying solo,” Flynn finished, her voice disgustingly fond. “I love you too, Jules.”

_ “But do you love me?” _

“Shut the fuck up, Carrie.”

Julie laughed before she could help it. “I’ll see you soon, you fucking lesbian,” she teased, waving to her dad as she bounced down the stairs. He waved back.  _ Carrie’s,  _ she mouthed. He blinked, looking taken aback, but gave a thumbs up.

Flynn sounded offended. “Hey. I have a cute boy in my arms at this exact moment,” she defended.

“Useless bisexual,” Julie amended. The sunshine was nice today. Especially after yesterday’s rain.

Flynn paused. “Well, yes. But it’s not like you’re one to talk.”

Julie laughed. “I’ll see you soon. Love you.”

“Love you too,” Flynn replied. Julie could hear the grin in her voice.

Yeah. Whoever was watching over her was definitely a little batshit. But it wasn’t all bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> December 22, 1995:  
> -up on a roof together, with bobby on the ledge and rose behind him, they talk. he talks about his band, about how he misses them and is a chasm without them. in return, rose reminds him that he's not alone; she shares her own grief: she lost her brother willie to an accident between him and a car when he was sixteen years old. bobby steps down off the ledge for her.
> 
> so!! yeah!! fun times lmao did you enjoy the fluff ((: it was a free trial ((: the trial is now over next chapter is angst time
> 
> haha love yall!!! lemme know what you thought!!! missed you guys

**Author's Note:**

> so that is!! the beginning of that!! we are going the weirdest of places and i am. so very excited. please drop a comment and let me know what you thought!!! if you want more jatp content or to request a fic, hmu on tumblr @bobbywilsonsupremacy (: thank you for reading!!


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